Driving Lessons
by Startled Boris
Summary: After destroying his 14th car, France has been told by his government that he has to pass his driving test. The only person 'willing' to help him is England - in return for help in getting a date. Chaos ensues. *Standalone story, not a sequel* All the usual characters turn up: Pru, Den, America, Pol, Russia, Scotland
1. Life in the fast lane

**Disclaimer: The characters in this story are not from my imagination but from the imagination of Hidekaz Himaruya and therefore, any relationship to people or events real or not is purely unintentional…**

 **Chapter 1 Prologue**

The Nation of England, Arthur Kirkland, sat in his leather high-backed armchair in front of a roaring fire. A cup of tea on the table by his side, a first edition copy of Dickens in his hand. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in London, 69 Trafalgar Square to be exact.

Rain spattered on his windowpane and there was a knock on the door.

Arthur ignored it. He really didn't want to deal with anyone today. Sunday afternoons were for gardening, reading, drinking tea, listening to Radio 4 and the cricket (if it was on) and watching Antiques Roadshow or Downton Abbey.

There was another knock on the door - a more persistent one this time. He ignored it again, they'd soon go away.

Silence, he smiled and continued reading.

Then there was a tap on the window.

"Bloody rain," England muttered. "But at least I won't have to water the tomatoes…"

'Tap tap tap'. The 'rain' this time hammered on the window.

This time he spilled tea down the front of his trousers as his cup flew into the air and he dropped his book.

He stood up and tried to mop himself down. He looked up and saw a familiar face pressed against the window.

He considered hiding behind the sofa but the face had seen him and was now gesticulating wildly.

"Damn you!" England yelled. He tried to close the curtains but the face was grinning at him and England's natural good manners prevented him and he trudged to the door as if he were going to the guillotine.

"Bonjour!" France stepped in, utterly drenched but still looking sexily disheveled. England hated him.

He shook his raincoat spattering water all over England's gleaming linoleum floor.

Arthur sighed and got out his mop.

"You are dirty pervert, Angleterre. I saw you sat there, reading your filthy book, watching your porn and zen rubbing your private parts through your pantalons…"

"I was watching Antiques Roadshow!"

"Ah oui! Zat is what I mean!"

"And I spilled tea… oh, what the bloody hell do you want, France?"

France sat himself down and began drying his hair using England's tea towel (England made a mental note to boil wash it later), "I need your aidez, Angleterre."

"Have you been invaded?"

"Non!"

"Well, bye then…" England said and opened the door, indicating that France should step through it.

"Oh Angleterre, you have to help me!"

"If you've taken America out on a 'bender' again and lost him then I will seriously end you," England said, picking up an umbrella and pointing it at France.

"Non, my dear old friend, it is far worse zan zat."

"Well?" England finally shut the door with an air of futile defeat. It was 'letting the warm air out' and it was clear France was going nowhere until he'd told his tale. He kept hold of the umbrella though. For defence purposes.

"My government have told me I have to pass my test!" France said and hung his head.

England frowned, "What test? Intelligence test? Drugs test?"

"Non non non. My driving test."

"You've never passed your driving test?" England switched the kettle on and sat down. This was actually getting interesting, "But you've been driving for years!"

"I know zis… eet eez stupid, non?"

"Well, you're an awful driver," England said. In his opinion, all foreigners were terrible drivers. All of them. Probably because they drove on the right, he thought.

"I have improved! I have only crashed two cars this year."

"It's April!"

"Exactly! Zis is what I told zem!"

"Oh my God!"

"Zay said zay will not pay out any more insurance claims and that I cost my country too much, so I have to pass my test also eet eez illegal or some such silliness."

England plonked a mug (chipped) - he reserved it for any visiting tradespersons or Nations he didn't like - full of tea in front of France. The mug said 'I heart Blackpool'. France shuddered.

"Yes, well… it is illegal," England said, sipping from his own bone china cup.

France wrinkled his nose at this. Laws surely don't apply to Nations, he thought.

"So, as amusing as this, what does this have to do with me?" England asked.

"I need you to teach me to drive," France said miserably.

"Bugger off!" England exclaimed, actually putting his teacup down with such force it cracked.

"I need your help, mon ami. Zay said I am not allowed to drive anymore!"

"Quite right too! I agree with zem, I mean them."

"Zay have offered me a beautiful car if I pass. My last vehicle was a Citroen 2CV as you know."

"Yes, a quite ghastly car," England said. He had a vague memory of being stuck in the back of it whilst drunk with someone's foot (he suspected it was Prussia's) up his nose and someone (Denmark, he thought) sat on his knee. In his opinion, the French couldn't build anything more complicated than a wine rack.

"Well…" France shrugged in his annoying French manner. "Zay have said I can have a beautiful Ferrari if I pass."

"Well, good luck with that!"

"So I need…"

"No. I am not teaching you to bloody drive."

"I will pay you!"

"There is not enough money in the world…"

"I know you are a very good driver," France said, aiming for flattery.

"You can flatter me all you like but I am not teaching you!"

"I have a proposition…"

"Right that's it… out!" England flung open the door again.

"Non, nothing like zat… I mean I will solve your romantic problems if you will teach me to drive."

"You cheeky bloody bugger. I don't have any romantic problems!" England yelled.

"When was ze last date you went on?" France asked, totally nonplussed.

"None of your bloody business!"

"Exactement, you cannot even remember."

England growled. It was true, he couldn't. "Erm… 1965?" he muttered.

France sniggered.

"No! Wait! It's more recent than that… It was Glastonbury and Bowie was playing and oh my God, 1971…"

"Ha!"

England sat back down and looked depressed but then he jumped up again, "I am absolutely not teaching you to bloody drive. I don't want a bloody mental breakdown."

France sighed dramatically. "You were my last hope."

"Last? Wait? You mean you asked other Nations?"

"Oui! I even asked Prussia!"

"You must be bloody desperate. Well I don't care. I am not bloody teaching you. I just want a quiet life. No histrionics. No drama. No idiotic extricating someone from a bloody Council tip. No trying to find 'DudeDen' in a Calais hypermarket…"

The telephone rang.

England went to answer it, "Don't bloody touch anything!" he warned France.

Five minutes later, he came back in, a black cloud over his head. "Damn and bloody blast! My government says I have to bloody help you. Apparently," (here England put on a high-pitched posh voice) "it will be good for Anglo-French relations they said."

"Ah zis is excellent mon ami!"

"Well, we'll see… I don't hold out much hope. I have three provisos."

"Anyzing!" France cried.

"You will do everyzing I mean, everything, I say!"

"Ah oui, of course."

"You will not be creepy."

"Of course, never!"

England raised a bushy eyebrow. "And you will get me a date…"

"Ah oui, of course."

"And you will keep your bloody pants on."

"Zat is four zings, mon ami."

England opened a bottle of Scotch, "Dear God. This is going to take a bloody miracle…"

Author's Note:

There will be a lot of swearing and silliness and keep an eye out for random Nations turning up... Hope you like it.


	2. Baby you can drive my car

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts (they keep me writing!): Siemsen, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 2 - "Baby you can drive my car"**

England knotted his tie, gave his unruly hair a quick brush, wiggled his eyebrows and picked up a well-thumbed copy of the Highway Code. This latter item was placed in his briefcase, along with a sandwich, a flask of hot tea and a wrapped buttered scone.

He considered wearing a crash helmet or some other safety equipment but a knock on the door distracted him.

"Why don't they use the bloody doorbell?" he muttered as he went to answer it.

France leaned against the doorway with a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.

"Ah Francis, you're early."

"I am, mon ami. I thought it was wise to be up in time for this joyous occasion." France imbued these words with suggestiveness.

"It's not bloody joyous in any sense of the word," England said.

"I will never forget zis, Angleterre."

"I hope you do," England replied, following the Frenchman down the garden path. He really hoped none of his neighbours saw him.

France sauntered down the path wearing red velvet flares so wide you could hide a small Nation in them, a lacy pink shirt, sunglasses and flip flops.

"You can't drive in those," England said, pointing at him.

France looked down, "Mon pantalons? Zay are too groovy, non?"

England shook his head, checked his pockets, ran back to his house, hissing behind him, "It's not your bloody pantalons, you fool."

"Zen what is it, mon ami?" France looked puzzled.

England re-emerged with his briefcase and locked his door. Phew. He'd nearly forgotten his flask. "It's your bloody flip flops."

"Ah," France nodded. "Zay are too sparkly."

"What has that got to do with it?" England almost shoved him down the path. His nosy next door neighbour was peering over the fence at them.

"Problem, Mr Kirkland?" the neighbour asked.

"No, no, not at all…"

"Bonjour!" France called cheerily. "I am to be Monsieur Kirkland's student!" France told the woman and leered suggestively.

Somehow, England thought, France managed to make everything sound positively filthy.

"Oh my!" the woman said as France took her hand and kissed it.

England grabbed France and shoved him down the path.

"Call me!" the woman shouted after them.

"My flip flops offend you?" France asked.

"Everything about you offends me," England said. "Oh damn, I think I left the stove on." He hurried back to the house, checked, re-checked, emerged, checked his pockets and hurried back to France (the Nation/person not the country) who was stood leaning lazily against his gate.

England shoved him off, "You're scratching the paint," he told him. "What I mean is that you can't drive in flip flops. You should wear sensible driving shoes like mine." England indicated his own shiny black Oxford brogues.

"Zay are for old men!" France cried.

"You're bloody older than me!"

France looked appalled and then shrugged, "Ah but I don't look it."

"You look like a middle-aged hippy."

But France was distracted. "Oh mon dieu, zis eez wonderful!" he exclaimed.

This wasn't due to England's insult but due to the car in front of them. A gleaming vintage Bentley sat like a hulking beast awaiting its master. That master was not going to be France…

"I love you, Angleterre!" France said, suddenly hugging Arthur. England shoved him off, brushed down his suit, looking round quickly. "Get off me! What in the name of cricket?"

France was swooning, running his hand lovingly over the car. It was England's pride and joy. His baby. He washed it every Sunday. He had even driven Churchill in it.

"Zis means so much to me. Because I know how much zis means to you…" France whispered.

England ignored him, walked passed the Bentley and halted next to a 20 year old beige Austin Mini parked behind it.

"Yes I know, Francis, I think £100 at a car auction was an absolute bargain. Even Austria would be pleased. Get in!" England replied, unlocking the mini and motioning France to get in.

"Zis is terrible! Eet eez worse zan ze cars I was driving in gay Paris!"

"Exactly. 850 cc engine. 34 brake horse power… my lawnmower has more oomph than this." England was inordinately pleased with himself. "Hopefully, this means you can't cause too much damage." He got into the passenger seat and shuffled himself comfortable. "Right, put your seatbelt on."

This was already a matter of confusion for France.

He'd only been in the car for five minutes and he was in a stage of 'debaclé'.

"Everyzing is back to front!" France whined.

"This is how it should be, you silly foreigner!" England almost yelled, completely ignoring the fact that it was only himself and his ex-colonies who drove on the left.

"Check your mirrors."

"I do not need to. I am gorgeous."

"No! I mean check your bloody mirrors that you can see behind you."

"Is that what they are there for?"

"Are you bloody joking?" England was already beginning to regret this and France hadn't even started the engine.

France sighed and turned the ignition key. He went to change gear and wound the window down instead.

"What kind of crap Engleesh car is zis? Where are ze window buttons? Where are ze gears?"

"There are no window buttons, there's a handle to wind them down. And the bloody gear stick is the other side, idiot."

"Ha! English always have to be different to anybody else!"

"India's the same as me. I taught him to drive. Good lad. Until he started listening to that Gandhi chap that is."

France said nothing but raised his eyebrows and tried to get the car in first gear.

"There's a first gear there somewhere," England sighed, never the most patient of Nations. But he was stuck in a car with the most annoying of Nations.

Eventually, the car shrieked off down the road.

There were quite a few people out watching its progress. The reason for the audience? France seemed to believe there was just one gear only and one speed - 40 miles per hour.

They slid to the junction, and England prised his fingernails from the dashboard.

"Dear God."

"I know. I am good am I not?"

"We've gone 400 metres and you haven't changed gear."

"Oui!" France winked at himself in the mirror.

"That's not a compliment."

"Oh."

"Turn left."

"I would really like to go right. I can see a very cute girl down there."

"That is not a good reason."

"Angleterre! Zis is why you are single."

"Go left. And besides, you are not going to spend the whole of this driving lesson wolf-whistling at ladies."

He was right. France didn't wolf whistle at any ladies. He wolf-whistled at men instead.

England sunk deeper and deeper into his seat. He really wished he'd worn a disguise.

France, he thought, was a worse driver than he'd realised. Perhaps even worse than both Italies, who drove as if they were in a car chase. Worse than Spain who often forgot where he was going and used his car-horn incessantly. Worse than Russia who saw pavements as an extension of the road. Worse than America who could barely drive in a straight line.

"Change bloody gear!" England yelled.

"Oui," France said, waving out of the window at a startled London cab driver.

"Get your hand off my knee."

"Zat is not ze gear stick?"

"Non! I mean, no."

"Ah."

"Keep your bloody hands and all your other body parts over there, please."

"I am shocked, Arthur."

"Right…" Arthur began to say.

France spun the wheel right.

"Did I say go right?"

"Oui!"

"Go left!"

"But you said right!"

"Oh for heaven's sake, we're going the wrong way down a one way street."

"Bonjour!" France called out of the window at an oncoming motorist.

"Turn round."

"Turn left, turn right, turn round. Make up your mind."

"Just put it in reverse gear!" England yelled.

They were in a narrow one way street with parked cars either side and six cars facing them.

France crunched the gear stick through all the gears until he found the one he desired and the car snaked its way backwards, France blowing kisses at the car in front. The motorist facing them looked horrified, embarrassed and angry in equal measure.

The car reversed at high speed backwards and into a busy carriageway.

France spun the wheel round as cars screeched and swerved past them. England closed his eyes and prayed desperately to the patron saints of motorists, lost causes and idiot nations as a 40 tonne articulated lorry sped towards them.

France grinned at him maniacally and flicked the wheel as they spun 360 degrees and they were magically facing the same direction as the oncoming traffic. He still had time to check his hair in the mirror.

As the car drove off, England finally took his hands from his eyes. "I thought we were dead."

"Non! We are Nations so we cannot die," France said confidently.

England didn't answer this. His immortality didn't console him at the moment. He could be teaching France to drive for the next few centuries.

* * *

Four hours later...

It was probably when the tea ran out that England finally decided to take matters in his own hands. Being stuck in a confined space with France could do to that a man or Nation.

To establish why the two bickering Nations were stuck in a car we have to rewind four hours to England's fateful instruction: "Parallel park just here".

No matter how many centuries there were left in England's life, and there were probably quite a few, he would berate himself for this mistake.

"I am good at zis," France told him confidently.

England was about to say that he'd seen the Frenchman park in Paris and that had involved hitting the cars in front and behind until your space was big enough to get your car in.

After 24 ins and outs. Mainly with England saying quite a lot, "Back a bit, forward a bit, back a bit, forward a bit", the small Mini was finally parked.

This, however, was not the end of the matter. England had made another mistake, poured himself a cup of tea from his flask as he recovered from having his knee grabbed and used as a gear stick.

Then the parked car in front moved off.

France emitted a yowl of frustration and gave a rude gesture to the driver.

England had shaken his head sorrowfully and then their fortunes took a grave turn for the worst.

A large lorry driven by an equally large man pulled up in front of them, so close that all daylight was blocked.

And then the car behind them pulled away and a large car took its place.

They were trapped.

England was at first not concerned. So what? Surely, they could wait a few minutes until the respective drivers arrived and they could then get out.

But then, after half an hour of trying and failing to quiz France on the Highway Code (surely, not all the signs were of a filthy connotation?) England decided to try to get France to 'un-park' the car.

France pointed out there was not a 'gnat's breath' between the front car and the back car. He even indicated the width with his thumb and forefinger and said it was less the size of some Nation's private parts. England did not wish to enquire how France would know this or whether it was true.

So this was why England and France had spent the last four hours stuck in a tiny Mini parked in a leafy street in South West London.

Drinking the last of the tea had finally done it for England. Even more than France dialling through all the radio stations and back again before he broke the dial. England yelled at him and told him that he would bear the cost of another one.

France had then begun texting random people on his phone and then holding what England could only surmise as filthy telephone conversations with 'degenerates'.

Having eaten his cucumber sandwiches (he refused to share them with France) and finding that he'd forgotten to butter his scone, England decided to take matters into his own hands.

"I'm going to go and get help, see if we can get someone to tow these bloody idiots out of the way," he told France.

He said this as if they were in the wilderness.

France shrugged and continued purring down the phone at some poor idiot.

But England found getting out of the car easier said than done. He tried to open the door and it slammed against a lamppost.

"France! You damned idiot!"

"Que?"

"Don't you 'que' me!"

France frowned and switched off his mobile.

"I can't bloody get out!" England yelled at him.

"I will help you!" France said.

"No, you bloody won't!" England said. "You and your damned pantalons." He wound down the window and began climbing out. "If you touch my bloody arse, I will end you!" he shouted behind him as he stuck his head out and began to shuffle out.

England found himself in the awkward position of the upper half of his body hanging out of the car and his lower half, the one he particularly guarded against France, stuck in the car with France.

"I could give you a shove," France said helpfully.

"You can bloody well get out and pull me out," England said.

"Are you stuck?"

"Of course I'm bloody stuck, would I ask you to help me if I wasn't?"

"Je ne sais pas."

"Puuuuull," England yelled at France as the Frenchman grabbed England under the arms and pulled.

"You need to lose weight, Angleterre."

"You need to work out more instead of sitting around drinking wine."

France looked appalled, "I am all muscle!" he whined.

He finally tugged England out. They stood panting and staring at each other wildly.

"I could ring someone," France said as they looked around.

England merely grunted, "Go on then."

"My phone is in ze car."

"Oh for God's sake!" England was about to climb back in. Then realised this was moronic and walked around into the road, a car whizzed past honking its horn and he quickly jumped into the driver's seat.

Between thumb and forefinger he gingerly picked up France's phone, vowing to wash his hands as soon as he was able.

He was about to telephone the Automobile Association and pretend they had broken down (after all they had, in a way), when France attempted to climb back into the car the same way England had exited it.

But… several things happened at once.

England accidentally pressed 'dial' on the first contact in 'A', there was a tap at the driver's window and France lost his 'pantalons'.

"I hate my life," England said desperately into the phone.

"Yo! Artie! Why're you talking on Francy's phone?" Alfred's voice came over loud and clear. The annoying American shouting so loud, he may as well be sitting right next to him.

The tapping on the window was a bemused looking London police officer.

The police officer was concerned. Not due to their abysmal parking situation. But because there was a naked bottom sticking out of their passenger window.

France's velvet flares had given up their job of keeping their owner decent and dropped as France squeezed through the window and landed, face first in England's lap.

It did not look good. The policeman looked horrified.

"It's not what it looks like!" England said, winding down the window. He tried, in vain, to shove France's face from out of his groin region.

France spluttered, "Mon pantalons!" he shouted.

* * *

It was another two hours before they were released from the police station. England refused, absolutely and utterly refused, to give France a lift to his disreputable hotel and drove himself home alone.

He unlocked his front door, closed it behind him and fell to the floor in exhaustion and just lay on the hall carpet face down. "Never again…And I bet he never got me a bloody date…" he muttered to himself.

There was a knock on the door…

He got painfully to his feet, "Does nobody know how to use a bloody doorbell?" he yelled as he opened the door.

"Hello Arthur! I'm your date tonight…!"


	3. Blind Date

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts (they keep me writing!): Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 3 Blind Date**

England had not had any chance to change or reasonably freshen up. A quick shave, brush his teeth and gargle mouthwash and he was out with his date.

He was amazed, literally, that France had got him an actual date with an actual woman. Although he wished he'd had a little more notice.

"Honestly Arthur, you look fine," Belgium told him as Arthur apologised for the 100th time for wearing the same suit he'd worn all day.

"I've had an awful day, Louise," England told her as they got in the taxi.

"Really, Arthur. It doesn't matter. Francis texted me and told me…"

"Dreadful…"

"I know. Losing your trousers like that…"

"I didn't lose my bloody trousers! That was France!"

"Ah right."

"What else did he say?"

"Well, that you needed a date tonight because you've not dated anyone for 100 years."

"Bloody liar."

"And that you're teaching him to drive."

"I was conned, Lou."

Belgium was well used to being a mediate between France and England and had affection for both of them.

"My government said I had to help him," England continued. "For Anglo-French relationships they said."

"Francis said you were doing it out of love," Belgium said before she could stop herself.

England was appalled, "Love! Love! Let me you tell you, young Belgium, about the first time I met that pervert!"

Belgium shook her head and put her finger to her lips, nodding her head at the taxi driver who was looking at them in the rear view mirror with some suspicion. Besides, she'd heard this tale many many times.

"Where shall we go, Lou?" England asked, changing the subject. "I know a rather nice fish and chip restaurant…"

"Francis has booked us a table at Chez Pierre's."

England's face fell.

"I know Arthur. But it's really nice. They have a guest chef on tonight. I know how you feel and how you had a fist fight with the maitre d' last time over the beer."

"It wasn't beer, Lou. They brought me French lager rubbish."

"Arthur you really should broaden your horizons. It really is nice food."

England didn't look convinced, "Well I can't go back anyway. Not after that chef chased me down the street with a meat cleaver."

"There's a guest chef tonight anyway. I told you. Besides, you did say something really rude about his sauce."

"It's French nonsense, Lou. It was gravy. And you know it."

Belgium rolled her eyes. "Anyway, Francis pulled a lot of strings to get us this table."

"You mean he slept with the owner?"

"Probably."

* * *

At the restaurant...

"I'll have whatever…" England said, looking morosely at the menu. It was in French. "Is there anything that doesn't have strange sauce on it?"

The waiter looked down his long nose at England, "Monsieur?" He obviously was pretending not to understand.

"…Or garlic," England added and took a sip of wine and then grimaced. This was not the pint of 'Speckled Hen' that he'd ordered.

"He'll have what I'm having," Belgium told the waiter, taking the menu off England with some force and ordering quickly in French.

"What's French for pie?" England asked.

Belgium sighed. She liked England, she really did but for various reasons she did not think of him in 'that' way. He was more like an older brother or a grumpy uncle. France or 'Big Brother France' as he insisted the younger European Nations called him, she viewed as the embarrassing older brother. And so this date had been set up by France as Belgium was in London and at a loose end and she also wanted something to take her mind off her romantic problems with someone else...

"I hope bloody Francis is paying for this mush," England said.

"You sound like Austria!"

England looked outraged. But before he could launch into another rant, a waiter put a plate down in front of him.

Oysters.

Like 99% of Britons, Arthur had zero experience of how to eat these. He looked around the restaurant for inspiration.

He spotted a familiar looking, but morose face at a table nearby. It was a face not particularly inspirational. It was Spain. He looked very sad. Big brown eyes were gazing at Belgium like a lost puppy.

England looked at Belgium (who was obliviously checking her phone) and back at Spain.

He decided then to have nothing to do with the situation. He'd heard from the gossip grapevine (Poland at the last world meeting) that Belgium and Spain were on a 'break' but England was often confused by his fellow Nations' romantic entanglements with each other. He preferred to stay out of it.

"Lou? Lou?" he hissed.

Louise was frowning at her phone. "What Arthur?" she asked, without looking up.

"How do you eat these?"

She demonstrated by tipping one back into her mouth, "It's not rocket science." Honestly, some date this was, she thought.

Arthur was thinking the same, he'd been amazed France had got him a date with a real woman, no less, and knowing France's propensity for playing jokes on him, but he'd thought of Belgium as a little sister. He hoped she wasn't going to be disappointed when broke the news to her.

"Think of it like those whelks you had at Blackpool seafront, Arthur."

"They're nothing like that and besides the last time I was at Blackpool I was forced onto the rollercoaster with that idiot Denmark. We got stuck at the top. Being stuck for two hours on a big dipper with a drunken Dane is not fun. And without beer, he's positively feral."

"You're actually a very negative person, Arthur." Belgium observed.

"I have bloody reason to be negative," he replied. "You weren't stuck with him."

England began to eat his oysters with a knife and fork. In his head, only sausage rolls, buns and scones should be eaten without utensils.

He continued his diatribe, "He's the most moronic Nation I've ever met… Apart from him…" he added.

"Hola!" Spain shuffled up to them, dragging the heaviest chair he could find from a nearby table.

"Oi! That's my wife's chair," a man said.

England sighed. He hated scenes of any kind. This was precisely why he didn't like socialising with his fellow Nations.

"But she not there!" Spain said in broken English, his big brown eyes looking innocent and… dopey.

"She went into the toilet," the man said indignantly.

"I hope she's alright, que?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Antonio looked worried at this.

Belgium intervened, "He just means he hopes your wife is okay."

Antonio nodded enthusiastically, "Si si," he said, looking at Belgium with soppy eyes.

Whilst all this was going on, England was trying unsuccessfully to cut his oysters with a knife and fork.

The man now stood up and it looked as if things were going to go bad for Spain, who was oblivious, and then one of England's forks hit one of the oysters and the slippery mollusc left the plate at some velocity and flew straight at a nearby table.

England, Belgium and Spain (whose reaction time was far behind everyone else's anyway) had no time to react as the oyster hit the man full in the face.

"I'm so sorry," England said.

The man, who was on the large side, slowly wiped the oyster from his face. He didn't look happy.

The man's wife then re-appeared.

"Oh look here's your wife! See! She's okay!" Spain said, ever one to be optimistic.

"Why shouldn't she be okay? Are you being funny? And who threw this bloody oyster?" the man said.

England stood up, feeling he should take charge, "Well… as for feeling funny, I mean, this funny French food is enough to make anyone feel funny…"

One of the waiters hurried off to tell the chef that the awkward Englishman was making terrible aspersions about his food.

"And you really need to calm down," England said, in what he thought was a masterful voice and was punched in the face for his trouble.

England fell back onto a neighbouring table and his bottom landed on someone's creamy dessert. He was glad now that he hadn't bothered to change his trousers earlier after all.

"So sorry," he said to the table's occupants.

They were not happy. One stood up and told the man who'd punched England that he should buy them another dessert.

"I only asked if his wife was okay," Spain said slowly.

"I know Tony," Belgium said, patting him on the arm.

"I love you, Louise," Spain said sadly.

"I know Tony, but we are never getting back together…"

Chaos had erupted around them. England, having had a long tiring day, was fed up of apologising for stuff that frankly he didn't see as his fault.

"You need to calm down, all of you," he told everyone, taking someone's steak tartare off their plate and placing it on his now swelling right eye.

"Yes. Arthur is right," Belgium agreed.

"That's my steak!" someone yelled.

"Well it was probably rubbish anyway," Arthur told them. "All that garlicky sauce rubbish."

"That's probably why that man's wife had to go to the toilet," Spain said unhelpfully.

England ducked as the man whose steak he'd stolen, swung a fist at him.

"Tony, that man didn't say she was poorly," Belgium was explaining to Spain.

A plate of lobster was tipped over and two men were now crowding around England.

England was aware he was at a disadvantage. His trousers were covered in dessert for one thing. And he couldn't rely on Spain for any help. Spain was, unless completely enraged - which took a huge effort - no help at all in a fight. Belgium was sometimes good in a punch-up though.

But the French chef, who was actually the 'guest chef' that night, Francis Napoleon de Chevalier Bonnefoy, suddenly waded in brandishing a large pepper grinder. "Who said zat zay do not like my food?"

"That woman…" Spain said, pointing at the poor woman who had been to the toilet.

"Oh bloody hell!" England groaned. "I had enough of you today. What in the name of Wimbledon are you doing here?" England asked the Frenchman.

This was as stupid a question as England could possibly ever make.

France pointed at his rather tall white hat.

England, not usually obtuse but then again he'd had a particularly trying day, just said, "Well don't bloody tell me then."

"My food are little morsels of heaven on earth. Zay are not too garlicky! Zay do not make anyone go to ze toilet. And if anyone has anyzing to zay zen zis pepper grinder will be inserted somewhere," France yelled.

"I prefer paella," Spain said. "You should cook more with tomatoes."

"Tony!" Belgium said in alarm.

But England had already punched the man who'd punched him, then been punched in turn by the man whose steak he had stolen.

England pulled back his fist to hit back but found his opponent thwacked over the head with a pepper grinder.

And then someone called the police…

* * *

Later...

"Well au revoir, Angleterre!" France called as England trudged out of the police station for the second time that day.

England muttered something indescribable back and tried, failed to pull his wet trousers out of the crack in his bottom.

His right eye was closing up and he had a split lip. He'd had no dinner and had been given a police caution and a fine for 'public disorder' and Belgium had gone off in a taxi with Spain but at least he hadn't had to pay for dinner…

All in all, not the worst date he'd ever been on.

He fell into bed just after 2.00 am with a soothing cup of tea and a hobnob.

Unbeknown to him, an envelope plopped through his letterbox. It was a bill for £2000 from Chez Pierre's for damages and unpaid dinner bills.

Also his phone buzzed and two text messages lit up the screen:

"Thanx Arthur 4 tonite. Tony & I are giving it another go. Thanx 4 your advice. Lou." (Arthur would be singularly alarmed and puzzled by this - he had given no advice.)

The other was more cryptic and sinister:

"England, you will meet me at the north gate of London Cemetery at 6.00 pm tomorrow for our date. If you value your life, do not be late."

There was no signature…

* * *

 ***Author's note: Belgium's human name in this fanfic is Louise (I don't think Himaruya ever gave her an official one and as it's the name I've used in my previous fanfics I thought I'd stick with it), England often just calls her 'Lou'.**


	4. Mercedes Benz

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts (they keep me writing!): Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 4 - Mercedes Benz**

England's cornflakes tasted odd. It could be due to the milk, too much sugar or the fact that the imbecilic Frenchman sat opposite him had poured wine over them.

"What in God's name are you doing here?" England asked again.

"I have come for petit dejeuner!" France replied but looking morosely at the lack of croissants.

"I don't have a small dejeuner!" England protested, utterly appalled. "Why would you say that? What's a dejeuner?"

"You have four new text messages," France said, not answering the question.

"Wait! Get your bloody hands off my phone, that's private."

France had arrived half an hour earlier - at 8.00 am sharp - before England had even had time to have his second cup of tea.

The Frenchman was wearing a very tight black t-shirt with the name of a band England had never heard of and distressingly tight jeans.

"Hmm… a message from your brother Scotland telling you to give up your job as Nation of Britain."

"That's a monthly occurrence, now give me my phone."

"And one from the local garage about your ongoing complaint about your spare tyres…" France raised an eyebrow and looked at England's middle. "Oui… you have a spare tyre."

"Give me my bloody phone!"

"Oh and your date for today!"

"Wut? I mean… what?"

"Oui! And I see Belgique has gone back to l'Espagne. Ah well, old friend, l'amor! You cannot come between two lovers!"

"I didn't even try!"

France just shrugged.

"Give me that bloody phone… what bloody date?"

"Ah yes…" France finally handed him the phone, "6 o'clock today, do not be late."

"Who is it? I don't recognise the number."

"Ah…I do not know."

"How can you not know?" England asked, eschewing the wine-drenched cornflakes and spreading jam on his toast.

"Well, I asked a few ladies who I know… I forget," France replied.

"Anyway, why are you here?"

"My driving lesson!"

"Not today, I'm busy."

"You are not busy until 6 pm, mon ami."

"I am very very busy. There's a cricket match I have to go to."

"Who needs to go to a cricket match?" France shook his head in disbelief at English culture.

"So no driving today. My nerves won't stand it."

"It will be practice for me!"

"No."

"Fine, zen I will ring back zis date and say you are not available."

"Damn…" England sighed.

France grinned triumphantly, "After all mon ami. Zis date may be the woman for you!"

"Yes… right…" England doubted this very very much.

"And you might even have a wonderful time…"

England would remember those words later…

* * *

"So it was a good night last night, non?"

They were sat in the Mini going down the High Street, France had already clipped the wing mirror off a white van and waved merrily at some workmen who were attempting to set up some roadworks.

A traffic cone was now stuck under the front bumper.

"In answer to your question, no, last night was not a good night. Have you seen my eye? And I ruined a very good pair of trousers."

"Well you should not go around insulting other people's wives."

"I didn't!"

France didn't listen but drove straight at someone who was attempting to cross the street.

He then began singing, in French. England kind of recognised the tune but refused to acknowledge it.

"Ah ze music of l'amor."

"Isn't that Sacha Diesel?"

"Eet eez Sacha Distel. Ze greatest French singer…Where are we going Angleterre?"

"Just down here, left then second left and drop me off at the gate," England said quickly. He was regretting this. He'd come up with the idea of a cricket match but was now changing his mind. He really didn't want to take France to a cricket match.

"I have to park and besides you have to stay wiz me, I'm a learner, non?"

"Oui… I mean oh bugger."

France drove round and round the car park. "Non… non… non… non…" he said at each empty space.

"Just. Bloody. Pick. One!" England yelled finally.

France jumped in his seat and promptly stalled the engine. "Sacre bleu!"

"You will be the bloody death of me. Just park the damned thing."

France pouted and re-started the engine. "Zis car is, how you zay… crap."

"Just park it!"

France crunched through the gears and then promptly stalled the engine again.

There was a horn blast behind them.

"Ignorant bloody buggers," England cursed. "We have L plates!" he yelled out of the window.

"Non, we do not."

"What?"

"I took zem off."

"And why would you do that?" England asked with a sigh and then realising he was talking to France. Everything related to Francis was illogical.

"Because it made me look like a learner."

"You are a bloody learner, you idiot!"

The car behind them blew their horn again.

France crunched up and down the gears again and the car shot backwards so fast that England was jerked forwards in his seat.

The car came to a dead stop, having hit the car behind them - a large silver Mercedes.

"Oh dear," France muttered.

"Oh bugger," England agreed and got out slowly. "Stay there and I'll deal with this," he told France.

"Oh Angleterre, you are so manly."

England's left eyebrow twitched.

England hesitated and wondered whether France should also get out and face the music but decided that France and his tight jeans would just antagonise the other driver unnecessarily. However, he thought, if it were a woman in the other car, France and his startling sex appeal might actually be useful.

It wasn't.

"Oh well, at least there's no damage to your car," England began without even looking at the other driver.

"Oui!" France shouted from the Mini and sounding very louche and quite drunk, England thought with a sinking heart.

"This is unacceptable!" A familiar German voice yelled.

England's heart sank even further. Of all the people to run into. He was glad now that France had stayed in the car…

"Ah Allemagne! You look so well…" France imbued this statement with a lot of suggestion.

"Him!" Germany's rage and indignation hit DEFCON 3. "He can't even drive!"

England realised that leaving France in the car was the smartest move he'd made all day. "Yes, I'm teaching him."

"Well you're not teaching him very well are you?"

England ignored this 'joke'. It was probably the first Germany had made all year. "Well, I see there's no damage so… we'll be on our way."

"That's not the point. We should exchange insurance details," Germany told him. He stuck his hand into his immaculate jacket pocket and pulled out a pen and notepad.

"I don't think that's necessary," England replied.

"And I see you don't have L plates."

"You can't tell me my own bloody road rules!"

"I do not need L plates!" Francis shouted from the car.

There was now a row of cars behind Germany all sounding their horns.

England tried not to look flustered, but he was aware his face was flushed.

"You'd better get that vehicle out of the way," Germany said, saying the word 'vehicle' with a lot of distaste.

"That's my newest purchase!" England said, preparing to get into a stand-up row with the tall German.

"Well I like it!" came an Italian voice from the back seat of the Mercedes.

Germany spun round, "How did he get there?"

* * *

Unfortunately for both England's and Germany's discomfort, France parked right next to Germany's plush Mercedes. So close that France had to slither his way out of the driver's window. Thankfully, England noted, France's 'pantalons' stayed on their owner.

Italy climbed out of the other car - via the window. Although as Germany pointed out, he could have used the doors on the other side.

"What other side, Luddy?" Italy asked, looking genuinely confused.

"The other side of the car!"

"The trunk?"

"Nein! The other side of the car, you dummkopf!"

Italy blinked in confusion and England wondered, not for the first time, if Italy had been dropped on his head as a child.

"Right bye then!" England said cheerily, hoping that was the end of it. It wasn't.

* * *

"201-4! Wow these scores are crazy, Senor England!" Italy said excitedly, bouncing around in his seat between England and Germany.

Germany looked bad-tempered.

Italy looked happy.

France was reclining lazily on the seats, smoking a French cigarette (a 'no smoking please' notice above his head) lazily texting some poor unfortunate.

"It's the number of runs," England explained through gritted teeth.

"They have the runs!" Italy exclaimed far too loudly for both England's and Germany's liking.

"Why are you bloody here anyway?" England asked Germany. He was asking this question a lot lately he realised. He had to lean over Italy to say this.

"I am here for a cultural visit," Germany said.

France harumphed to himself. "Ze Engleesh have no culture. Zay have all ze culture of an out of date yoghurt!"

"You take that back!" England growled.

Germany ignored the possibility of an Anglo-French disagreement brewing next to him - it was a default setting for them both. Instead he took out a notebook, "Can you explain the rules, England?" he asked.

England sighed. His 'quiet' day of watching cricket (ignoring the fact that he'd only just brought this up as an excuse not to teach France to drive), savouring the 'thwack' of willow hitting a leather ball, the 'Howzat?' calls of the bowlers, the polite clapping and the chances of a very nice cream tea later were all in grave threat.

"They're weird bats, man!" a very loud American yelled behind them.

No, scrub that, the afternoon wasn't under grave threat, it was ruined and buried under a huge pile of what used to be England's hopes and dreams.

England put his head in his hands.

"Si! And nobody has scored a goal since we got here!" Italy agreed.

"It's totally crazy, man!" America clambered over the seats and shuffled himself between England and France - for which England was grateful. He never liked sitting next to France at the best of times. This wasn't the best of times.

"Explain the rules to me, England," Germany said again, his pencil poised over his notebook.

"GOAL!" Italy yelled as a wicket fell.

The whole cricket ground turned to look at them.

Not for the first time when he was in the company of his fellow Nations, England wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

"Can we go get corndogs?" America asked.

England shook his head.

"Aw why?"

England didn't want to admit that he had absolutely no idea what a 'corndog' was.

* * *

Later, when England looked back he would curse his decision to visit a tea bar to get a mug of tea (in a polystyrene cup which he only tolerated as he was 'parched') and a buttered scone. It was whilst he, America and Germany were stood in the queue, America bouncing around from foot to foot and Germany tutting loudly, that France was arrested for the third time in just two days.

England, for a few minutes, was blissfully unaware of what was transpiring outside.

"You know I did not know Italy was in my car or how he got there," Germany said awkwardly.

England nodded equally awkwardly.

"I mean… I have no idea how…" Germany began to say.

"Really, Germany… erm… Ludwig…" England began, not quite comfortable with calling Germany by his human name. "Erm nobody cares if you're with Italy you know."

"What?" Germany said, glowering.

"You know that we all know you're in a relationship," England continued. "Don't we, Alfred?"

"They don't have corndogs!" Alfred replied, utterly appalled.

"No, because this isn't Texas!" England told him.

"I'm not in any way…" Germany began to protest.

"Honestly, this isn't the 16th Century anymore," England said.

"It might as well be! I mean, man, no corndogs! No mustard! No popcorn!" America lamented.

"This is a tea bar," England turned round and told him. He turned back to Germany, "Really you don't need to be ashamed of your relationship any more."

"I'm not… I mean I am but only because…" Germany tried to say.

"Dude! No-one cares if you're gay! Put a sock in it!" America yelled for all the world to hear.

Germany blushed a deep red and then had the further ignominy of England clapping him on the shoulder.

"He's stupid but he's right."

And then there was an announcement over the tannoy. 'Can an Arthur Kirkland please come to security.'

"No!" England attempted to escape but was barreled along by America and Germany and besides he realised too late that idiot France had the car keys.

"I wonder why they want you, Artie? What have you been doing?" America asked.

It was Germany who answered by pointing at the television screen set up showing live screening of the match. "That's why I'm ashamed of being in a relationship with Italy… he's a moron…" he said sadly.

There, in on a giant television screen, several metres across, in glorious technicolour, the Nations of Italy and France could be seen running across the cricket pitch, both waving their 'pantalons' joyfully in the air, their white bottoms bobbing up and down. The footage was being played over and over.

"Streaking! You were streaking!" England exploded at France and Italy. The latter hung his head in shame.

"You Engleesh are so prudish," France said, his hands in front of him bound by cuffs. He didn't look ashamed.

"I'm very sorry, Mr England. Big Brother France bet me that I couldn't get across the pitch in less than 20 seconds and I really needed the euros so I said I could and he said that if I took off my trousers then I would run faster and then he chased me. But he had taken off his trousers as well!" Italy said, in all one rush.

Germany shook his head, his arms folded.

* * *

Later...

England only just arrived at London Cemetery at the allotted time of 6.00 pm. Providing bail for France (Germany had stumped up the bail for Italy), ensuring the Frenchman was deposited at his embassy without further incident and sourcing the only place in London corndogs could be bought, had taken up the rest of his day.

So now he stood at the North gate of the Cemetery (he'd had to check his compass that he was stood at the correct entrance - he always carried a compass, a hangover from his Navy days), drizzle beginning to trickle down his neck, a gloom descending over the area.

He had a sense of impending doom and wondered vaguely if he'd left the stove on or run out of teabags.

England squinted as a figure loomed up out of the gathering mist.

"Oh no…" he whispered and attempted to run…

**To Be Continued **


	5. Is this the way to Hell?

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts (they keep me writing!): oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 5 - Is this the way to Hell?**

It was not a usual Tuesday evening for Arthur Kirkland. There was no football on the television or cricket (although he'd had enough of that for a while) but wandering around a cemetery in the fast approaching twilight with the creepiest girl Nation, Belarus, was not something that would be high on his list of enjoyable things to do.

"What are we doing here?" England asked her again.

He wondered again why she had agreed to go on a date with him and the conversation they'd had upon meeting had not reassured him.

"Oh my God… Miss er Belarus…" England had stuttered. All the male Nations were both in love with and terrified of Belarus. She was the most unstable and therefore the most terrifying of the Nations, even including Russia.

"Privet!" she'd said quite cheerily, belying her appearance. She was wearing a long black cloak - the hood obscuring her platinum hair and was wearing what England presumed was 'Gothic' make-up. (He meant Goth but he was, of course, way behind the times.)

"Erm I didn't really expect it to be you…"

"Who did you expect?" she growled.

"Erm… Did you send that text?"

"Of course!"

"France gave you my number?" England cursed under his breath.

Belarus didn't answer this, "We are going to have the most wonderful time," she said instead, quite forcefully and then added, making it sound like a threat, "And you will enjoy it."

England felt a shiver down his back, "Did it suddenly get cold around here?" he asked. "Perhaps we should just go to the pub?"

"Yes, but first I must have a look around this beautiful graveyard," Belarus told him and stepped past him regally, expecting him to follow. Which he did.

"If you're interested in cemeteries, I suggest we go to Highgate where Karl Marx is buried," England said, following her.

She cut a sinister figure as she stole through the graveyard. Moss-covered gravestones, some chipped and broken, loomed out of the mist. Crosses, angels and even a Victorian crypt greeted them. England sighed. He was really going to kill France for this. He could have been at home with a cup of tea, watching Coronation Street. He thought about ditching her but two things stopped him. One, he was a gentleman and gentlemen did not ditch ladies in the middle of cemeteries no matter how creepy. Two, he was afraid of her.

She finally stopped and beckoned to him to approach.

"I know of a really nice pub not far from here. They serve nice pie and mash and I believe they serve vodka so…" England began.

Belarus put a finger to his lips so he wisely shut up.

"Hush. You wake the undead," she said and nodded to the six foot stone angel stood guard over the grave in front of them.

"Baloney!" England said before he'd had time to filter what came out of his mouth.

"What?" Belarus hissed and a knife appeared in her hand.

"Bolognese," England said quickly, "That pub. They do a good Spaghetti Bolognese!" he broke out in a cold sweat.

Belarus shrugged. She rummaged in her rather large bag, tipping out various articles - a black velvet cloth which England thought was a fancy if dull tablecloth, a small saucepan (she said to England as if in explanation, "I forgot the cauldron"), a vial of some bubbling liquid, a silver knife, a stake ("For the undead sleep uneasy") and a pair of binoculars.

She was about to put this latter item back when England picked them up, "Well if you're interested in birds then I'm sure we can spot some in here. I'm really keen myself!" he told her.

Belarus raised an eyebrow. She set the black velvet cloth on the grave in front of the angel, and lifted up the vial, thought about something and then said, "Oh England, look over there!" and pointed.

Arthur turned around, putting the binoculars to his eyes, "Is it a nightjar? An owl? I have seen a barn owl around here…" he said excitedly. He felt a tug on his hair and spun round.

Belarus was holding a pair of scissors and a hank of England's hair.

"Why did you…?" he began.

"I need hair from the head of a powerful wizard for my cleansing ritual. Also, you needed a haircut." She almost added that she couldn't find a powerful wizard but didn't.

England hadn't really heard this, he just heard the bit about the haircut, and, as he had the quite sensible outlook that one should never argue with a lady, particularly an unstable lady carrying sharp scissors, he decided to ignore it. Particularly when she began chanting in Russian.

"I'm sure I hear a nightingale. And there's definitely a barn owl," England told her.

Belarus wasn't listening, she was drawing some strange swirly symbols on the ground with chalk.

"Yes well, Miss Belarus, I really don't think writing graffiti on the ground is going to attract any wildlife," England said, thinking he sounded quite witty.

Belarus ignored him and continued to chant, eyes closed, swaying slightly.

"Turdus merula!" he exclaimed.

Belarus' eyes snapped open, "What?" she glared at him, reaching for the knife.

"Blackbird!"

"Are you being funny?"

"It's Latin for blackbird." He saw that she looked annoyed. "Pub?" he asked again.

Belarus nodded, realising that her ritual wasn't going to work if he kept yakking next to her.

"But first I need to run some errands," she replied.

"Fair do's."

Belarus glared at him. The English-Belorussian interpretation was not going well.

* * *

"Why are we in this telephone box? Isn't that the Russian Embassy across the road?"

Belarus muttered something in Belorussian to the gist of: 'By the Golden Horde, he never shuts up moaning or going on about the pub.'

"Shush!"

"This is most irregular, Miss Belarus."

"Shush!"

"You know I'm sure that stone angel moved as we left the cemetery."

Belarus turned round from watching the Russian Embassy entrance and said, "Me too!"

"I knew it!"

A tall figure came out of the Embassy and hurried down the road, as if hunted.

Belarus crept out of the telephone box and cautiously followed the figure, dragging England with her.

"You know, I'm rather glad we're out of that box. I once had a rather unfortunate incident where I was stuck in one with…" England began to tell her, oblivious to the fact Belarus was not listening.

She had stopped following the figure and suddenly began to take an interest in something directly behind England whilst trying to look nonchalant. "Wut?" she asked suddenly, hoping the figure they were following had not seen her.

"Yes, the phone box incident. Honestly, it was horrendous. Being stuck in a confined space with France and America is not my idea of fun."

But Belarus had already loped off. She turned and beckoned to him to follow.

"Damned peculiar," England said to himself. And he was used to peculiar. But at least she hadn't threatened him for a while nor was she drunk nor was she about to divest herself of items of clothing. In all, as dates go, it was going okay.

He followed her, sauntering down the road. She was peering around the corner and dragged him next to her, stopping him from walking on.

"He's coming back!" she suddenly said.

"Who is?" England asked but Belarus dragged him with her into a shop doorway where they stood looking in the window.

"Oh! Cushion covers! I could do with some of those!" he said, peering through the window, "Pity some of the colours don't match my decor."

Belarus nodded absent-mindedly, "Blood red…" she said wistfully.

"Red? Are you mad, woman? With my chintz armchairs?" England shook his head.

"There!" Belarus saw something and hurried off again, and then stopped when she realised she'd forgotten something, dashed back, grabbed England and dragged him with her.

"I say! This is awfully exciting and a bit strange!" England gasped and then halted. "Hang on! I know what you're up to!"

Belarus stopped in her tracks. "You do?" she looked over her shoulder as the tall figure turned a corner and disappeared from sight. England was her cover story, if the KGB or her brother realised what she was doing, she'd be back in that padded cell scrawling 'BECOME ONE' all over the walls in crayon, with only visits from 'Dr Knockemoff' to break the boredom.

"But you'll never see it from here!" England told her.

"It?" Belarus was about to punch him for calling her darling big brother an 'it'.

"No! That barn owl will be hunting in the cemetery now."

Belarus looked at him incredulously.

England nodded, looking a little smug. "I'm actually a bit of an amateur twitcher, Miss Belarus."

Belarus had no idea what he was talking about. She'd heard England was mad as a March hare but it was only now that she believed it.

She dug into her pocket and handed England a card - "Dr. Knockemoff" England read. "I see. I'll ring him. Does he see a lot of rarities?"

Belarus considered this, as herself and her siblings were Dr Knockemoff's patients to lesser or greater degrees and all Nations were 'rarities', then yes. She nodded.

"He can really help you," she said, patting his arm.

England smiled, "Pub?" he asked again.

"And you can get treatment for your afflictions," she added. She meant to say 'addictions' - referring to his rumoured alcoholism - but again, Anglo-Belorussian translation wasn't going well.

"Ha! You mean bloody France! He's a bloody affliction!"

Belarus surmised that England was unhealthily obsessed with France. But she didn't have time to deal with other people's obsessions at the moment. She sprinted down the road and peered around the corner. Where on earth had her bloody quarry/brother gone?

"Wait for me! Oh, you've gone past it! My word you're in a hurry!" England puffed as he caught up with her. "I must say this really isn't much of a date, Miss Belarus, I mean I'm sorry I didn't book a table anywhere but you didn't give me a lot of notice but there is a nice fish and chip restaurant just down that street and…" he was jerked off his feet once more and they ran down the said street.

"Oh, bad luck!" England said as they stopped, panting. A black cab drove off, a familiar figure sat in the back emitting a strong aura of both fear and dread.

"Wut?" Belarus turned and glared at him. All her plans ruined. Her prey/quarry had escaped.

"Bad luck for missing that cab. Taxi!" he stood in the middle of the road. Normally this was not his usual strategy for hailing a cab but needs must when Belarus was obviously in such a hurry.

They were in luck. Or not, as it turned out, as a cab pulled up.

"Yo! Losers!" the cab driver yelled at them.

This was surely not the usual greeting by an Uber driver, but as England very rarely took taxis, he wasn't to know that.

He and Belarus got in the back and England attempted to give directions to the two drivers in front. That fact alone should have warned him that all was not well.

"Aw man! Not old man England about to ruin our street cred!" It was Denmark. His voice like a foghorn. He was driving, or something like that.

"When did we ever have street cred, Den?" the other was Prussia, sat in the front passenger seat, his bare feet on the dashboard.

England winced at this. There was no excuse for showing off bare feet in public unless one was at the swimming baths or the beach. Otherwise, socks should be worn at all times. Barbarians.

"Since when have you two been taxi drivers?" England asked. Beside him, Belarus seemed to emit some kind of dark aura that filled the cab. This did not seem to affect Prussia and Denmark.

"Norge said I needed to earn my own money," Denmark yelled above the sound of the radio.

"Dear God…"

"Ja! Bruder told me to get out of the house before he killed me, so I came with Denmark because he's not allowed out on his own!" Prussia added and the two high-fived each other.

On England's top ten list of most annoying Nations, Prussia and Denmark were way up there with France, probably at numbers 2 and 3 respectively.

"So you got yourself a date, old man?" Prussia yelled at England, his red eyes winking at him in the mirror.

England winced. "Old man? Denmark's older than me!" England nodded at Denmark.

"I am! God, I remember Jorvik," Denmark said wistfully, weaving in and out of the traffic - sometimes even on the correct side of the road.

England's right eyebrow twitched at the word 'Jorvik' and he resisted the urge to yell at the Dane. He counted to ten. After all, one should not lose their temper and scream obscenities in front of a lady.

Belarus was muttering dark oaths and curses under her breath in Belorussian.

Prussia and Denmark were moronically oblivious and England was tempted to tell them just who they had in the back of their car.

"Do you know who's here with me?" he began.

"Jeez it's not Francis is it? I mean bloody hell, you two should just get married!" Prussia snorted.

England did explode then, "You just shut up! I would prefer to nail my testicles to a bloody roundabout than spend any time with France!"

"I like roundabouts," Denmark said wistfully and they went around one - the wrong way round, causing mayhem in what was one of the Capital's busiest roundabouts. There was soon at least a dozen cars all using their horns.

"Time for some music!" Prussia yelled, shoving in a CD, and, this is where the evening got even worse for England...

 _"When the day is dawning,_

 _On a Texas Sunday morning,_

 _How I long to be there_

 _With Marie who's waiting for me there_

 _Every lonely city…_ " Denmark and Prussia both 'sang'. (Sang was just an operative term in this case.)

"Oh dear God…" England wound down his window in the middle of the stuck traffic, "Help us please, anyone!"

Belarus screamed and then fell silent.

"Woah! A real chick!" Denmark interrupted.

"Every lonely city... Come on, join in!" Prussia yelled.

" _Where I hang my hat_!" Denmark continued 'singing' as he slammed the car into reverse and did a very wide U-turn.

" _Ain't half as pretty as where my baby's at!_ " Prussia 'sang' back at him.

England put his head in his hands and hoped that this was just some drink-fueled nightmare and he would wake any minute.

Denmark crunched down a gear and slammed the car down the road without even asking his customers where they wanted to go.

And then both Prussia and Denmark joined together in the rousing chorus:

" _Is this the way to Amarillo?_ "

"No! It's not. And for the love of all that's holy let us out!" England yelled.

" _Every night I've been hugging my pillow_ ," (both Nations hugged an imaginary pillow to their chest - Denmark taking both hands off the steering wheel)

 _"Dreaming dreams of Amarillo…_

 _And sweet Marie who waits for me"_

England covered his ears and directed Belarus to do the same (she would thank him later he thought).

" _Sha la la la la la la_

 _Sha la la la la la la_

 _Sha la la la la la la_ "

After each line, each idiot swatted each other around the head twice and grinned moronically in the mirror at England.

"Let us out here!" England cried.

They weren't listening. This was obviously their favourite song.

England tried to reach forward to switch off the CD player but Belarus muttered something under her breath, some strange incantation perhaps and the song was reduced to a crackle.

But the singing didn't stop...

England realised that perhaps he'd died and this was hell. He was consigned to be driven around the North Circular Ring Road for all eternity by the two most IQ deficient Nations he'd ever met and no doubt as part of the eternal torment metered out to him, they would be singing this infernal song.

Prussia and Denmark were about to start their sixth rendition when Belarus had obviously decided it was time to end the torture. "Hello boys!" she said, throwing back her hood and shoving her head in the gap between them.

Denmark slammed on the brakes so hard that the car nearly stood on its nose.

"Gott im Himmel!" Prussia yelled - not screamed. A German, Gilbert thought, would never ever scream.

"Go go go!" Belarus shouted at England.

He didn't need telling twice and he leapt out of the car.

He didn't look round but ran, Belarus running after him.

The Uber cab drove past them, Prussia's thin white face leering at them out of the window.

England could still hear " _Sha la la la la_ " even after his second pint of beer and it was a good hour or two before his hands had stopped shaking.

"I thought we would never get out of there, Miss Belarus," he said for the tenth time.

He remembered no more of that evening, only ordering a packet of pork scratchings and finding them out of date, Belarus beating some men at darts and his mobile phone vibrating in his pocket. He didn't answer it.

Much later, someone very strong put him to bed, fully clothed, his arms across his chest as if he were dead, a single white rose on his body.

 **Author's Note:**

 **Apologies for the inclusion of the song 'Is this the way to Amarillo' - and if it's now stuck in your head as it is in mine...**


	6. Aftermath

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia**

 **Chapter 6 - Aftermath**

When England awoke, the first thought that went through his head was 'why does my head hurt?' and then 'why am I holding a rose?'

He wondered briefly if he had perhaps died. Can Nations die from too much drink? If that was the case then surely Denmark, Prussia and Russia should all have died centuries ago, they were far heavier drinkers than he. The reason he thought he had died was, not so much the fact there appeared to be a series of small explosions going off in his head, but the fact that he could still hear those imbeciles Prussia and Denmark singing that infernal song.

At least he was fully clothed, that was some small consolation. He wondered briefly who had put him to bed. Clearly someone had. He couldn't remember anything.

He rolled off the bed and instantly his eyes hurt.

"Tea," he managed to croak, like a man who had been in the desert for years.

He heard his trusty old kettle downstairs whistling happily - the best noise in the whole world.

Either he had gotten suddenly very good at magic (doubtful) and could now 'do' telekinesis or there was a burglar. A burglar who made tea.

Somehow he stumbled downstairs and weaved his way into the kitchen.

"Ah! Bonjour Angleterre!"

"What in the name of cricket are you doing here?"

"I went through your cupboards and you did not have any croissants!" France said this as if it were a cardinal sin.

England squinted at him, sitting down heavily at the table, "Croissants? Why would I have croissants? And turn that bloody light off."

"Zat bloody light is the sun!" France said. "Anyway," he continued, "I took ze liberty of going to ze boulangerie to buy some croissants for petit dejeuner."

"Why are you here?"

"Driving lesson!" France said cheerily.

"Not today, absolutely not, non, nyet, nein… got that? And will please turn that bloody light off!"

France leaned down to look at him, "Eet was a good night, mon ami?"

"No, it bloody was not!" England almost yelled, but this hurt his head and so he took a big slurp from a mug of tea France had placed in front of him (at least he had some uses).

"Ah… I see… but you are still in ze clothes you wore yesterday!"

England sighed. He remembered shadowy figures running, one running away from him, one - a smaller one - running with him, birds - possibly ravens or some such, stone angels that may or may not have moved, and then… here England had to take another big gulp of tea, the worst of all. Those two imbecile taxi drivers, Prussia and Denmark and their infernal song.

"Is this the way to Amarillo?" England inadvertently began to sing.

"I hope not," France said, actually looking concerned.

"Oh God," England put his head in his hands.

France handed him a glass of fizzing alka seltzer and sunglasses.

"Merci," England muttered.

"What can I do for you, old friend?" France said, actually sounding sympathetic.

"Bacon… I need bacon. Only bacon can rid me of this hangover."

France looked appalled at this and merely placed a croissant in front of him. "I zink you need more zan bacon, mon ami. You need to sort out those tattoos for one thing."

"Tattoos?"

"I know you were in ze navy and all zat. Ah I love a sailor…" France went off into a reverie.

England looked at him and then down at his forearms, his sleeves riding up, revealing inky sigils and runes of some fiendish design.

"What the bloody hell?" he stood up, threw off his jacket and then his rolled up his sleeves. There were sigils and runes up and down his arms, swirling designs, stars and pentagrams, eerie numbers and letters in some unknown alphabet. "Can you read this, Francis?" he asked, feeling a little faint and very worried.

"It says that you need work out with some weights. Get down to ze gym."

"You fool! I mean the bloody tattoos…" England stuck his head inside his shirt to see if there were any tattoos on his chest - alarmingly there were.

Taking his mug of tea, he hurried or staggered was more accurate, up the stairs to his bathroom, locked the door, placed several obstacles against the door as protection against a French invasion force and stripped off his clothes.

As feared, his front, his back (he craned his head to look at himself in the mirror, standing on the loo so he could see his upper back), his legs and his arms were covered with tattoos. His 'other parts' thankfully, were clear. Whoever had done this had stripped him down to his Union Jack boxers, inked him and then re-dressed him. He must have been drunker than he'd ever been in his 1000 plus years.

"Are you alright, mon ami?" France asked, trying the door and then tapping on it lightly.

"Fine…" England said and filled the bath with hot water.

* * *

Four hours later, England entered his kitchen, now wearing a clean suit and tie, his hair combed, having taken several painkillers and cups of tea and also having scrubbed his body with all manner of lotions and potions. He'd even tried turpentine. Nothing had shifted the strange inky patterns. They hadn't even faded.

France was on his hands and knees, wearing a pink apron, cleaning out England's cupboards. "I found jam that is older than Feliciano in here," he told Arthur.

"Why are you still here?"

"I like it. I like to mess with your head. I already vacuumed your lounge, tidied away ze porn magazines and watered your plants."

"Porn magazines? They were my gardening magazines!"

France shrugged, "Eet eez all ze same to me," he said incomprehensibly.

England shook his head (it still hurt, but it no longer felt quite as if there was a drunken Viking rampaging through there) and took a deep breath, "I need your help, France."

France looked him up and down, "Yes, you do. You dress so boringly. You have no idea about style. Your house is a mess and your cupboards! Ooh lala! I have never seen such abysmal foodstuffs. Well, I have, but they were in Allemagne's kitchen. Terrible…" France finally stopped and seemed to be remembering, with a glint in his eye, the day that he rummaged through Germany's cupboards.

As much as England would have liked to hear what Germany had in his cupboards, he really had problems that needed sorting.

"No, I mean my arms, these bloody things won't come off, and they're everywhere!"

"Everywhere?" France looked up, blowing his hair out of his eyes and suddenly looking interested. He looked England up and down in a way that made England feel very dirty.

England squirmed, "Well almost."

"Let me see."

"No! Bloody pervert!"

"You are such a spoilsport."

"Why? Because I won't let you perv at my body?"

"I do not believe you zen."

"Well, what do I do?"

"Have you had a bath?"

"Of course, I've had a bloody bath. What do you zink, I mean think, I've been doing?"

France shrugged, "I do not know. Not teaching me to drive?"

"I have better zings, I mean er… things to worry about."

France tied his hair back in a pony tail and began on another cupboard, "Ah I see that you have a strange obsession with tupperware of all kinds. You know…" but France barely got his words out before England had opened the door, shovelled him out and into the Mini.

"…you and Allemagne are very much alike," France managed to finish. He was still wearing a pink apron.

England's right eyebrow twitched, "Just drive," he told France.

"You are very grumpy. Ze last teacher I had was not very grumpy, but he drank a lot."

England nodded and said sarcastically, "I can't imagine why! I mean really? Wow!" He felt like a drink himself.

"I know!" France agreed, crunching through the gears until he found the right one and then flung the car into reverse, almost slamming into England's prized Bentley, stopping within millimetres of the front bumper. (England shuddered)

They took off down the road. "Where are we going, mon ami? Another cricket match? It was such fun, yesterday."

England did not think being stuck in a queue with America and Germany, trying to explain the rules of cricket to both of them and then bailing out France and Italy from jail was 'fun'.

"You can't go to a cricket match. The court has an injunction out on you. You're not allowed within 500 yards of any cricket match."

France pouted as they drove down the road. "I am too sexy for cricket."

England ruminated on how to get an injunction so France couldn't get within 500 yards of _him_. Was that possible? He went off into a little reverie.

"Tell me how to get rid of these bloody tattoos," England said after just five minutes of silence.

"I zink my friend, that you need to get zem covered up with more tattoos."

"That's not appropriate. I have an image to uphold!"

"Your image of an uptight middle-aged Englishman? You could get a tattoo of me on your back! Zat would be ze best zing, I zink."

"Oh shut up…"

There was silence - for a while. France drove round and round the block, waving cheerily at people (he was still wearing yellow marigold gloves) and occasionally wolf-whistling at the workmen at the end of the road. It is not clear what big workmen in high-viz gear and hard hats thought about being wolf-whistled by a very camp learner driver.

"Can you bloody hear a radio somewhere?" England asked suddenly.

France shook his head.

"I can still hear that bloody song," England added. He fiddled with the radio. "Oh God…" England sighed and then said, "Perhaps we could just go to a DIY shop and…"

"Oui! You need to sort out your house. A full redecoration. We will buy paint and get some new curtains. You also need new bed linen."

"No! I was wondering if I could get something that removes ink!"

France looked disappointed and then brightened, "Oui! Zen you can just get a tattoo of my face on your chest!"

England shuddered, "I would prefer to nail my genitals to a rocket."

France looked honestly surprised at this.

"I can still hear that damned bloody song…" England switched the radio on and off.

"What damned bloody song, mon ami?" France feigned a mixture of indifference and concern, a devilish grin on his face.

England didn't answer as they sat in a long queue of traffic, instead his usual highly irritable behaviour came to the fore. "What in the name of all that's holy is going on here?"

France shrugged, switched off the engine and began filing his nails.

England got out of the car. His hangover was bubbling away in the background and he was dosed up on a combination of alka seltzer, paracetomol and tea, although he'd not had enough tea. He was not having a good day. It was about to get worse.

He heard before he even saw, who was causing the chaos.

"Show me the way to Amarillo, I've been waiting like a willow…" came the dreadful singing.

That infernal song, would he ever be free of it? He'd heard it all day in his head, going round and round like some hellish earworm. He shook his head and tried to backtrack before they saw him.

Too late…

"Hey! Old man England!" it was Prussia, sitting on the pavement, looking very much like a vagrant (although a vagrant would feel affronted by this comparison), waving a beer in the air.

England quickly pulled his jacket over his head and hurried back to the car.

But the other one shouted, "Yo! England, who do we ring to fix this?" the loudest voice in Christendom addressed him.

England used to think America had the loudest voice, but Denmark, when in full flow could make Alfred F Jones sound like he was whispering.

"Damn," England cursed and headed towards them.

"We broke down," one of them said. Quite unnecessarily as it turned out as the hood, there was smoke coming from within and there was a steady drip of oil.

"Who do we ring?" Prussia asked England.

"Ghostbusters!" Denmark yelled and grinned happily.

England ignored the big dopey Dane. "You need to ring the AA."

England walked away, trying to block out the next verse they began singing.

"Well, mon ami? Eez eet some big buff workmen like ze last ones?" France asked, looking up from polishing his nails, "Are zay digging up ze roads?"

"No, it was somezing far worse." (Clearly, England appeared to be picking up a French accent..)

France raised an eyebrow and then he grinned devilishly, wriggling provocatively in his seat. "Oh lalala, my phone is on vibrate. Eet eez delicious."

"Jesus."

"Non. Eet eez not him."

"Just bloody answer it!"

"Eet eez leetle Gilbert! 'E says zat he wants to talk with you."

England took hold of the phone between thumb and forefinger, swearing to wash his hands as soon as he could afterwards.

"England!" came the German voice from the other end. (England wondered why he bothered ringing, he could hear him anyway.) "You told us to the ring the AA but they were no good."

England sighed, "Why not?"

"They just said some rubbish about cutting down on my drinking!" Prussia said, sounding utterly appalled.

England pressed the button to hang up.

"We should help zem, mon ami." France said sadly.

* * *

It took France, England, Prussia, three big workmen (one had his bottom pinched by the 'creepy Frenchman'), to get the cab to the side of the road so that the traffic flow could resume. Denmark's steering impeded the operation drastically.

"Right, let's have a look at this bloody thing," England said.

"Ah mon ami, do not get yourself dirty," France cried.

"Why not?"

"You have another wonderful date tonight!"

"Tonight? But I haven't heard anything… I can't possibly…"

"But you can possibly…"

"I'm covered in bloody tattoos!" England said, but leaned over the car's open hood anyway and peered at the engine.

"Ah oui… eet eez true," France told Prussia and Denmark, who both stood, open-mouthed.

England stood up, his hands oily and wiped them on Denmark's already filthy t-shirt (he wasn't going to sully his own outfit), "So, what did you do to this car?"

"It wasn't our fault!"

"Nah, it was okay 'til you got in with your weird girlfriend."

"Ah she is gorgeous, but deadly," France purred.

"Girlfriend! She's not my girlfriend!"

"Whatever…" Prussia said, but then handed Denmark a ten-pound note, shrugging.

"Ha, told you!" Denmark punched the air.

"You had a bet on me?!" England yelled.

"Ja!"

But England was distracted and took out his phone.

"Are you ringing those AA people? Because they were no help when we rang them."

England ignored them, "Ah hello? Miss Belarus? No, it's me, Arthur… Kirkland… England… from last night. Yes…" he tried to ignore them and even turned his back on his fellow Nations.

"Ha! She doesn't remember him!"

"Then that's a bit of luck!"

"Ah l'amour!"

"Well, yes I did have a nice time… I think… did you? Oh, I see…" England's face fell.

"Kesese! England's too boring for Princess Crazy!" Prussia shouted deliriously. England elbowed him in the gut.

"Well, I'm sorry about that," England said, feeling the most 'unsorry' he had ever been in his long life. Surely, it wasn't his fault that Belarus hadn't 'caught' her brother? He hadn't even been aware she was hunting him last night. Suddenly, it all came together. England absent-mindedly slapped his head (leaving a large black oily handprint on his forehead) and then said, "Well anyway, even if it was my fault that you didn't catch Russia, which I really don't think it was actually…" he broke off listening.

(France, Prussia and Denmark inched away from him as if Belarus was going to reach down the phone and strangle them all.)

"I wonder if you could shed some light on my tattoos…" England continued.

He stood listening intently, so did Prussia and Denmark. France looked bored.

England listened and then almost yelled before he realised who he was speaking to, so quietened his voice, "It's your shopping list? Really?"

France tugged England's sleeve up and showed Denmark and Prussia the tattoos. Both stepped back looking very very worried. In fact, they both jumped in the car and attempted to leave, all singing ceased. They forgot, however, that the car was broken down.

"This is unacceptable!" England yelled, he then added much quieter, "Sorry… you'll do what? Oh…" he then hung up.

"She will remove your tattoos?" France asked looking a little concerned (but only a little).

"No, she'll remove my head if I bother her again," England said gloomily. He spotted Denmark and Prussia locked in their car.

He tapped on the window.

One of them opened it a crack and said, "Thanks, but we don't want to buy anything today."

"Insolent little buggers," England said. "I thought you needed help?"

"Not from you…" Prussia said, winding the window back up.

England tapped on the glass again, "Why?" he asked eventually when one of them opened the window.

"You're a marked man, dude," Denmark said sadly.

"Yeah. You're cursed," Prussia agreed.

"Poppycock!" England said. He turned to France who shrugged.

"I can be your bodyguard!" France told him as they walked back to the Mini.

"Baloney! I don't need a bloody bodyguard. Now, telephone my date and tell them I'm not going tonight.

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"I cannot remember who it was."

"You complete and utter nobtard," England said.

Because it was such a new insult, France had no idea what that meant. So he shrugged again in that annoying French way.

* * *

They arrived back at England's house, England trying to work out how to get rid of the tattoos, when there was a knock on the door.

"Tell them to go away!" England yelled.

However, it was the postman with a parcel. For some reason, the poor man was trembling.

France blithely signed for it and England warily opened it.

Inside a box was a human skull with a message: "Fill this with the regretful tears of a thousand-year-old Nation, shake it vigorously under the light of a full moon and I will come…" it was signed Belarus. Clearly, she'd sent this before their one-sided, 'quiet' argument that afternoon.

He dropped the thing and wiped his hands.

France switched on the kettle and then opened a bottle of wine.

But neither had the chance to refresh themselves when there was the unmistakable sound of horse's hooves on the garden path…

 **Author's Notes:**

 **Obviously, Prussia had mistaken the AA (Automobile Association that England was talking about and who deal with vehicle breakdowns) and the AA (Alcoholics Anonymous, who don't).**


	7. Mustang Sally

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia**

 **Chapter 7 Mustang Sally**

"For goodness sake, Arthur, just get on will you?"

England looked up at the horse (who was not the speaker) and then the rider. "Miss Hungary…?" he began.

"Oh God! Just call me Liz, or Elizaveta if we have to be formal. Jeez. How long have we known each other? Calling me Miss Hungary makes me sound like a Miss World contestant."

England didn't like to say it, as he was a gentleman, but she didn't look like a Miss World contestant. She was dressed in a Hussar's uniform, along with a crossbow on her back. He was about to say that carrying such a weapon along the streets of London would mean arrest but didn't. Instead, he said, "Why have you come by horse?" he thought it was a reasonable question.

"Have you seen the state of the taxis around here?" she replied.

"Funny you should say that…" England was about to go into a very long and sorry tale about his encounter with Prussia and Denmark and their lamentable taxi driving skills when 'Liz' rudely interrupted him.

"Francis! You old tart!" Hungary shouted. (Why oh why did his fellow Nations have to be so bloody loud?)

France stood in the doorway still in his apron and wearing his marigold gloves. "I am now Angleterre's maid and will be forever in his service," he said this with a wink and a leer.

"Oh dear Lord. I bloody hope not," England exclaimed.

"Come with us!" Hungary asked France.

"He's not bloody coming. This is supposed to be a bloody date," England said, utterly dismayed by the idea. He had serious doubts as it was about this 'date' anyway. "It's not a date if he's there."

"Well, I thought actually with you two living together…"

"We're not living together!" a vein began to pulse in England's forehead.

"Okay…" Hungary said slowly.

"It is fine, I will stay and sweep the cinders. I do not have a dress anyway," France said incomprehensibly.

"Cinders?" England looked confused. "What cinders?" he didn't say anything about the dress.

"Aw, so sad…" Hungary said.

"It's not bloody sad! It's bloody weird!" England yelled.

"You need to calm down," Hungary said, threateningly. She took her crossbow off (England flinched) and threw it at Francis. "Look after this," she told him.

"You two go and have fun!" Francis waved at them. "Be home by ten o'clock, Angleterre!" he added.

* * *

Later...

'Fun' was not a term England would have used to describe his evening so far. Indeed, calling his evening 'fun' would be libellous. He did not think riding down his street holding onto a woman dressed as a Hungarian cavalry officer 'fun'.

His neighbours, who already doubted his lifestyle choices as it were - particularly with the frequent visits of a flamboyant Frenchman in excessively tight jeans - were even more inclined to gossip after this. Also England's horse-riding was an intermittent affair and his thighs were now chafing.

The restaurant where France had booked them a table was another 'foreign affair' with no carpet and no tablecloths. A sure sign, in England's view, that the owners expected people to drop food on the floor.

The table also distressed England, beside the lack of tablecloth. It was set for four.

"Er, excuse me?" he said, trying to get the attention of the waiter. And failing. Finally, he clicked his fingers.

This did not go down well.

The tall, gloomy waiter with a long droopy moustache loomed over England and glared at him, "Mit?"

"Mitt?" England looked confused.

"It's 'what' in Hungarian," Hungary explained.

"Is it?"

"Yes, he's asking what you want?" Hungary said again. She wondered sometimes if England pretended to be dumb. She was of the opinion that most of the male Nations were stupid, but always thought that England, Austria and Germany were the exceptions.

"Can we have a table for two, please?" England said slowly, assuming that if he spoke slowly, the man would understand him.

The waiter turned to Hungary and said something in a foreign language that England, with his very limited knowledge of foreign tongues, knew was not French, German or Italian. Beyond that, he had no idea.

"Nem," the man said.

"He says no," Hungary told England.

England sighed. This was unfortunate, it meant that anyone could join them.

The horse, tied up outside, as if they were in a Western movie, looked at him balefully through the window. England looked back.

When he looked back at his table there was a large glass of something which was not beer and a bowl of something that looked like stew.

"Is this goulash?" he asked.

"Oh right, I see! You think because this is a Hungarian restaurant, all they serve is goulash," Hungary said, looking quite angry.

"Of course not, I just wondered…"

"Well actually it is goulash but that's not the point!"

England decided not to argue. He instead ate his goulash, which in his view, was just fancy stew. The drink was another matter and nearly blew his head off.

"What is this?" he asked, spluttering.

"Palinka!"

"Can I have a pint of beer?"

Hungary sighed. The rumour amongst the Nations was that England had a drink problem. Not that he was a terrible drunk - he was - America claimed England had once fought a lamppost and then burst into tears after three pints of beer, the latest rumour was that he was obsessed with 'pubs'. This had come from an excellent source (Belarus), and not the usual one (America).

Hungary had hoped that the palinka would be enough - the fruit brandy might just make England merry enough to be bearable but not drunk enough that he began moaning about whether he was Catholic or not.

"So you had a date with Belarus?" Hungary inquired.

England was about to tell her everything but remembered that she was an irreverent gossip and no doubt it would be all around the rest of the Nations by text before the evening was out.

"Can I see your tattoos?" she asked.

England groaned, "Who told you?"

"Francis of course!"

"Is nothing about my life private?"

"Not really."

England realised he would have no choice and rolled up his sleeves.

"Wow! They're really creepy!" Hungary sounded positively delighted.

To be fair, some of them had begun to fade. But England was still worried, "How do I get rid of them?"

"Magic?" Hungary suggested.

"I've tried that."

"I'm amazed you didn't turn yourself blue."

England snapped his fingers to get the attention of the waiter. And failed.

Hungary effortlessly called him over, said a few words in 'gobbledegook' and took out her phone.

"A phone call? Is it an emergency? Do you have to leave?" England said hopefully. Although the evening was marginally better than the previous one, he was still aware they were getting funny looks from the other customers.

Hungary's hussar's uniform could be the reason, he surmised. On the other hand, unbeknown to him, he had a sign on his back that said 'GAY AND PROUD'.

"It's Austria. He's absolutely useless without me," Hungary explained proudly.

England didn't think this was a good thing. Being proud that your ex spouse couldn't find his way around his mansion without your help was not something England thought called for celebration.

"He's asking how to switch on the washing machine," Hungary confided before rattling off a series of instructions in Hungarian.

England shook his head, as a man who prided himself on washing, ironing and starching his own laundry, he was often appalled by his fellow Nations' ineptitude.

"I thought he had servants?" England asked.

Hungary looked at him, "Not all of us can afford maids, Arthur."

"Francis is not my bloody maid!" England said rather too loudly, causing the rest of the customers to look around.

He was mollified a little when the waiter brought him a pint of beer. He cradled it in both hands as if it were a mug of cocoa or a life preserver.

"Well, Feli was no bloody good as a maid and obviously he left," Hungary said, ending her call with Austria. "He kept breaking stuff and crying."

England didn't really want to hear about Austria's domestic arrangements but it looked as if he was not going to get a choice.

"I mean how can you not tell Feli is a boy?" Hungary continued.

England shook his head and clutched his beer. He had visited Austria on a number occasions - particularly when they were 'allies' during the War of the Austrian Succession. He remembered the 'cute' but dizzy little maid and had been as shocked as everyone else that Italy was a boy. He was still unsure about this.

"What about that other little weirdo who lived there? Holy Rome?" England asked, despite his own fears of being drawn into a long conversation.

"Well now, that's an funny story…" Hungary was about to say more when she looked up and waved enthusiastically.

"Please don't be a Nation… Please don't be a Nation…" England prayed to himself.

Unfortunately, England's luck was not holding out

"Yoohoo! Sweeties!" The unmistakable voice of Poland invaded the restaurant.

England didn't mind Poland, as far as Nations went. It was the just so flamboyantly 'don't give a fuck gay' attitude that England had a problem with.

Poland embraced Hungary and then dragged England out of his seat and embraced him as well, kissing him twice on both cheeks which England always thought over the top - even for a 'continental' type. There was also Poland's attire - pink flowery blouse, a rather short skirt and platform boots.

They made Hungary's clothes look positively understated.

"Hahaha, I feel rather under-dressed," England said, trying to sound at ease. He wasn't.

"Poland, you've achieved maximum gay!" Hungary said, looking Poland up and down.

England winced.

"Thank you, hun," Poland replied.

"Arthur, show Pol your tattoos," Hungary ordered.

"I really don't think…" England began to remonstrate.

Poland clapped his hands together delightedly, "Anchors? A naked lady? France's delightful face?"

"We're not a couple!" England protested.

Nobody was listening. Hungary winked at Poland, "Arthur went out with Belarus last night. She said it was like going out with a shop dummy."

"Did she? Well I'll have you know…" England began.

Pol squealed and sat down at the table and called the water for a bottle of vodka. England, of course, was the only person the waiter failed to notice.

"A date with Princess Crazy and you're still alive?" Poland asked him (England not the waiter).

Hungary nodded sagely and rolled England's sleeves up. "Look at these."

"Wow! Well at least she didn't break your fingers. She's a crazy girl…" Poland said, peering at the tattoos. "Are they everywhere?"

"I haven't looked!" Hungary confessed.

They talked as if England was not there.

Poland looked amazed. "Honestly sweetie the girl's completely mad as a fish. As well as that big lunk of a brother."

England looked around, "You never know who's listening, Poland!" he said worriedly.

"Oh hun! Those thugs don't scare me."

It was true, England thought, nobody scared Poland or Hungary for that matter. They were both easily the toughest Nations.

England stared gloomily out of the window at the horse, who appeared to be having a much nicer evening than him. He wondered if he could possibly jump on it and escape. They were examining his tattoos as if he were an interesting specimen and had taken off his jacket and Poland had lifted England's shirt to look at the tattoos on his chest and back.

Hungary's phone beeped, "I'm just telling Austria about Arthur," she said as she began texting. "Oh my God! He says he's flooded the kitchen!" she said, first in Polish to Poland and then in English to England.

England sighed, at least someone else was having an awful evening.

"Must you tell all of Europe about my problems?" England asked.

"Well yeah…"

"Well isn't this nice? I mean it could be worse…" England began as they continued to manhandle him.

"It looks like a shopping list," Poland said.

They weren't listening to England, so he decided to drop a conversational bomb. "So how about Prussia and Denmark with a taxi eh?"

There was silence as both Nations stared at him.

"Erm…" England thought quickly. He knew Gilbert in particularly annoyed both Nations to distraction.

But they both shrugged. Clearly, England's tattoos were more interesting.

England didn't think it would get worse even when Hungary began taking pictures and texting them to God knows who.

"Romania's good at magic. Do you know his number?" England asked.

"Oh hun!" Poland said, dismayed.

Hungary growled at Arthur.

"Obviously not…"

But then it got worse. Much worse.

"Yo! Dudes! The hero's here! Wow Artie, you pulled two chicks this time. You dog!" It was America with some poor chap in tow.

"Oh no…"

"Hahahaha! Pole-land!" (this was how America thought it was spelt) "I thought it was a chick!"

Hungary and Poland both stood up and kissed America on the cheek.

"Woah there!" America was just as awkward as England.

"Aw, you're so cute," Poland tweaked America's cheeks a little too hard. "You're my favourite superpower."

"Ow that hurt!" the superpower said.

Poland winked and turned to the man stood next to America, "And who's your sweet little friend? I love a cowboy."

The 'sweet little' friend was well over 6 feet tall and dressed in a suede jacket with fringes, cowboy boots and a ten gallon hat. England felt very sorry for him.

"Were you on your way to a fancy dress party?" England laughed, relieved that Hungary and Poland's attention had been diverted.

"Nah! This is Texas, my boy!" America said.

"Oh my God! The last time I saw you, you were tiny," England said.

"Hi Uncle Artie," Texas said. He turned to Hungary and Poland and kissed their hands in turn, "Ma'am," he said to each.

The two Nations squealed with delight. England rolled his eyes.

"I'm showing Tex around London," America told England. "I was going to take him to Buckingham Castle but they wouldn't let us in!"

"Imagine that!" England said, tucking his shirt back in and eyeing the exit.

"I know!"

Poor Texas sat with Hungary and Poland either side of him feeling his biceps. He looked a bit uncomfortable. England felt sorry for the lad. He remembered 'Tex' as being a small boy in specs who was fond of horses. Although, usually as loud as his dad, Texas' spirit was obviously being drained by Hungary and Poland. America was blissfully ignorant.

"Belarus eh? I'm amazed you're still alive Artie. I mean she's crazy, dude. You don't wanna be messing with them Russkies," America all but shouted.

"Those Russkies… I don't want to mess with those Russkies. If you're going to give me advice then please use proper grammar," England told him.

Nobody was listening to him. Poland had pulled out a diamante-encrusted iphone and began telephoning some poor unfortunate soul which seemed to enthral both Hungary and America.

England decided to make the most of the diversion and focused on getting the hell out of there. He slid quietly off the chair, dropped to the floor and began crawling SAS-style towards the toilet door.

He got to the door, opened it, crawled inside as if he were on a special ops mission, looked around, stood up quickly and headed to the window which was way above his head.

He could hear the shrieks of hilarity as Poland was translating to Hungary that he'd rung 'Norway to tell him that Belarus had put a curse on England' and that Norway thought 'it highly likely there would be a plague of Frenchman hitting London before long'.

England attempted to pull himself up onto the window ledge.

"Do yer need a hand there, Uncle Artie?" came a Texan drawl.

England spun round, "Oh Texas! I didn't hear you come in! Yes, please. Could you give me a leg up, kind boy?"

"I sure can! I remember you bought me a cowboy doll when I was just a kid," the Texan said.

"Yes yes yes, I did! Now if you don't mind..." England interrupted.

"And I remember you bought me a toy pony…"

"It was a hobby horse, young man."

"Hell yeah! It sure was!"

"Well this is all very nice but I really must be going…" England said, aware he only had a limited amount of time before Hungary and Poland realised he'd disappeared and would be on the hunt.

"I hear yer!" the American said but didn't move.

"Well if you could just help me get out of this window. I mean you really have no idea what hell I've been through today. If you could cover for me…"

"You're not enjoying your date with Auntie Liz?" Texas asked.

"My dear boy, I would prefer to be painted blue and paraded naked down Kensington High Street."

Texas nodded, "I thought as much. I mean I thought Auntie Liz wasn't really your type."

England was pulling the wastebin under the window and about to climb up when he stopped, "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, with what you've got on your back…"

"What's on my back?"

Texas pulled the notice from England's jacket and handed it to him, "I did wonder, Uncle Artie. I mean, it's entirely your business. I'm not here to judge."

"Gay and proud?" England stared. "I am going to kill France," he said decisively.

* * *

Time passes...

"I am going to kill you!" England announced as he stormed into his lounge.

He had managed a daring escape, without Hungary and Poland seeing him, and rode the horse home. He noted with approval that Texas had covered for him. He heard Texas telling the remaining Nations that 'Uncle Artie' had had a brainstorm. He would have to have words with the boy about that.

Francis, he found with great distaste, was lying on his sofa listening to a recorded phone message from Scotland (weekly telephone calls from his brother telling him to retire were the sole reason England had purchased an answering machine).

"I think it's time yer retired as Britain, Arthur. Yer rubbish and yer know it. Going around gettin' tattoos, chasing after Russia, he's a dangerous man he is, yer don't want to anger him by spurning his little sister. Queen Liz sent me a Battenburg cake and if that isn't evidence enough that she wants me to be Britain and not you then I don't know what is. I will nae live in London though, I'm stayin' oop here in Glasgow. Yer can retire and be a poncy gardener with yon Francy-pants…"

England switched off the rest of the loud, angry diatribe.

France frowned, "I was listening to that. I find he has such a musical, soothing voice."

"Why the bloody hell are you here?"

France declined to answer and loped out of the door (much to England's relief).

"Bye zen, mon ami. I will see you tomorrow. Do not forget our next most wonderful lesson. I am learning so much, eet eez truly an honour to be avec vous and…" but the door had slammed in his face. France shrugged, patted the horse who was stood outside nonchalantly eating England's prize begonias, and headed off singing to himself.

England opened a bottle of whisky and poured himself a very large dram. He wondered what tomorrow would bring...


	8. Oh Yeah

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia**

 **Chapter 8 Oh Yeah**

England whistled happily to himself as he filled the kettle. He looked through the window over the sink at the sunshine, at the birds singing in the trees and smiled to himself. It was going to be a lovely day. Perhaps. He had no hangover, no ominous text messages had arrived during the night, it looked as if those awful tattoos were fading and best of all - no Francis.

He switched on the radio to get the latest news. 'A disturbance in a Hungarian restaurant resulted in the arrest of four people'. England shrugged, "Bloody foreigners."

He sipped his tea, looked up and spilled his beverage all down his freshly laundered trousers as a horse's head appeared at the window.

"What the bloody hell!" England exclaimed and then remembered the night before.

He jumped up and opened the window. This was not a good idea. The horse stuck its head through. England hopped about, rummaged through his cupboards for some sugarlumps, turned back to find Francis' head there instead.

England spilled his tea again and shouted a series of expletives.

"You are pleased to see me?" France asked, pointing to England's trousers.

"Dear God!" England yelled.

"Not quite…"

"You don't bloody live here, you tart," England said.

"Not yet," France muttered. Then, seeing as England was not about to open the door for him, he climbed through the window.

"Bugger off!" England said, attempting to fix his trouser predicament.

France smiled at him almost paternally. "Ah Angleterre, you are so cute when you are angry."

"I am bloody not cute!"

"I disagree," France went to ruffle his hair.

"Leave my bloody hair alone."

"It needs cutting… or something… definitely something, mon cheri. It is terrible. Only Russia has such a bad hairstyle."

England was momentarily lost for words.

"Besides, I have brought you something very exciting…" France held out an envelope.

England frowned, "What is it?" he declined to reach for the envelope, as if it were a bomb or worse.

"Plane tickets!"

"Where to?"

"Open ze envelope!"

England was very suspicious, "I'm not going on any more dates. I am not going to give you any more driving lessons. I am now taking a stand, here and now. So you can just leave right now."

France nodded, "But first, mon ami, I need to help you take the horse outside back to its owner."

"If this is some kind of devilish trick…"

France turned and looked at him and affected an innocent look. "Devilish? I am just trying to help you!"

"Help me? Your last few attempts to 'help' me have left me with a black eye, arrested, with tattoos which are probably indicative of black magic…"

"Shopping list…"

"Excuse me?" England asked, aghast that he was interrupted.

"It was a shopping list…"

England ignored him and continued. "…And then sent on a date with Hungary who clearly was only interested in gossiping with Poland. Why on earth he turned up I have no idea and then that big American lunk…And as far as I'm concerned, if I don't see Hungary and Poland again until the next world meeting then it will be too soon…"

"But we have to return Zsa Zsa Gabor!"

"What?"

"We have to return Zsa Zsa Gabor!" France said pointing outside.

"What in God's name are you on about?" England peered outside to see if there indeed was an aging Hungarian actress outside.

"The horse!" France said. "I zink, honestly, Arthur, that you are going mad."

"Well I'm going to change my trousers…"

"Zis is the story of my life," France sighed.

England took a deep breath and decided to ignore this. "And then I'm going to have a cup of tea and toast and then you are going to take Zsa Zsa… erm that horse back to Hungary."

"Moi? But it was you who stole it!"

"I did not steal it!" England yelled and then took another deep breath.

"But mon ami, it was nothing to do with me."

Actually, England had to concede that for once he was right. France could not be blamed for this.

"Where is Hungary now?"

"Between Romania and Austria!" France said and smiled. It was an old Nation joke and one that some of them never tired of telling.

England gritted his teeth and thought about running upstairs, locking the bathroom door and staying there until France had gone. But he knew that France would not just 'go'. He would stay outside the door, tapping on it, saying stupid things and saying 'Angleterre' over and over again. He knew from experience.

"Text Hungary and ask her where she is." England ordered him and stomped upstairs.

He got to his bedroom and began sorting through his wardrobe. He needed trousers that were France-proof.

"Now then…" he perused his wardrobe. A guardsman uniform - no. A pirate's costume - no. Then some yellow tie-dye dungarees he'd worn back in the 1960s. Those would be good, at least they were 'France-proof'. But no he finally settled on some jeans that needed ironing.

He could hear France talking on the phone to someone. Hungary, England supposed.

"Oui, oui, I do not zink he had a good time last night…"

"Don't tell her that!" England yelled.

But France continued, "I agree, he eez so mean and he never pays for anything!"

"I bloody do!" England yelled, struggling with an ironing board on the stair landing.

"He says zat Poland and America turned up with leetle Texas."

"He wasn't bloody little!" England yelled, finally finding his iron and switching it on. "Why are you telling her this?"

France did not answer him, "He eez so uptight. Eet eez a shame I was not zere."

"It's the only bloody good thing about it!" England yelled.

"Mon cher, 'e says zat was the only good zing about it."

"Don't tell Hungary that!" England shouted in a panic and then promptly burnt his hand on the iron.

"He eez stood at ze top of ze stairs sans pantalons!"

"I'm ironing!"

"E is insatiable!" France confided to the person.

"Ironing!" England tried to confirm. He ran down the stairs in his boxer shorts and snatched the phone off France, "Listen here," he said in his most commanding voice, "I am not mean, I am not insatiable and I am wearing pants," he said down the phone, standing in his boxers.

"Oh… your Majesty, I am so sorry…" He began bowing, his face beetroot red and glared at France. "Yes, your Majesty. Really? The Hungarian Ambassador said that? Oh… And President Hollande said I had to teach Francis to drive did he?" he punched France on the arm. "Yes, Francis is a hoot isn't he?"

France smiled, holding his arm.

"Yes yes, I suppose Anglo-Franco relationships are very important," England said through gritted teeth. He glared at France and mimed a throttling gesture and then drew a finger across his throat.

England listened again and then said, "Yes, I'm sure he'll make a good driver… eventually… Yes, I will put my pants on." He hung up and proceeded to chase France around the house with a large frying pan.

By the time he'd recovered, had a cup of tea and come to terms with the idea of France and the Queen of England being on first name terms and that the Queen liked France, he found that the iron had burnt straight through the back pocket of his jeans.

He shrugged and put them on anyway, deciding to tell France not to go touching his 'bloody derriere or he would kill him' and resigned that this was no doubt going to be a dreadful day. His bum felt cold through the burn hole but at least he was wearing clean boxers.

"I like your Queen, she is tres chic," France confided.

"Shut up," England growled, feel rather jealous and under threat as his 'boss' and France and France's boss were obviously in cahoots to make his life as miserable as possible.

They were going down the road together, however, neither were in the same vehicle. England was driving the Mini, with the window wound down whilst France was riding alongside on 'Zsa Zsa Gabor'.

For once, France was quite conservatively dressed - for him. He was not dressed as an aging but obscure washed-up rock star, nor as a seedy nightclub owner. In fact, he'd made an effort and was in a proper suit with a suitably knotted tie and ordinary shoes. England was suspicious.

"Zis is a strange driving lesson, Angleterre," France said.

Their argument had started as they'd left the house.

"I'll drive and you ride the horse back," England had said.

"But I need to practise driving not riding. You ride and I will drive," France had said.

"You can't drive alone, you're a learner," England had reminded him.

"Zen, you drive, come back here and zen…"

"But then, I've just gone out and come back!"

"Oui… Or I will ride ze horse zere, ride back and zen we go together."

"But then you've just taken the horse for a ride."

"Ah…"

"Are you high?"

The horse, with a higher IQ than both of them, had munched slowly on the begonias looking at each of them in turn.

"You ride, I'll follow in the car," England had said finally.

"Zat is what I said!" France had told him flicking his hair and climbing on the horse.

"No it's not!" England had said and got in the Mini in a less flouncy manner.

England's next door neighbour called after him, "It's nice to see you out, Mr Kirkland!"

Arthur wasn't sure if she meant 'out' as in 'out out' or out as in 'out of the closet'. He turned on the ignition and pretended he hadn't heard.

* * *

Hungary was staying at the Hungarian Embassy, France told England and so the two Nations ended up abandoning the car and leading the horse through the streets of central London.

After an excruciating series of mime, talking very slowly and loudly, France's failed attempts at Hungarian - all aimed at some quite dour (England thought) Hungarian Embassy staff, Hungary herself came out and yelled something in Hungarian from an upper window.

"Good morning, Miss Herdervary!" England called up. "We could do with a cuppa!"

Actually, Hungary was telling the Embassy staff under no circumstances were they to 'let those two idiots into the Embassy'.

"We brought your horse back!" France called up, "Ah, zis is a sight for sore eyes, non?"

Hungary disagreed, "Cut it out, Francis you pervert!" she yelled.

"I was not talking to you, I meant your guards!" Francis winked at the security staff.

England rolled his eyes.

"Has he been fed yet?" Hungary called down.

"I don't know, probably. He had some croissants earlier, probably some wine, you know what he's like," England called back.

"You fed wine to my horse?" Hungary looked ready for war.

"I thought you meant France!" England exclaimed.

"I think you're obsessed with France, Arthur and you need to get your life sorted out," Hungary told him.

"Ah, eet eez true l'amor," France said, pulling a rose out from somewhere, a place England preferred not to think about.

"Bloody shut up, you fool," England said, refusing the rose.

Poland's voice could then be heard, "Will you two be quiet? Some of us are trying to get some beauty sleep."

"He needs more zan zat," France said to England.

"I heard that and I'll come down there and kick your arse, Francis!" Poland said.

Much as England would have liked to see France getting his arse kicked by a man in a pink negligee with curlers in his hair, they really had to be getting on.

"He's obviously aggrieved that I left them. And that he got arrested. Bunch of hooligans," England muttered.

"I heard that, Arthur and I'll be down to kick your arse as well…"

England definitely put some speed on then and they rounded the corner and hurried back to find where they'd parked Mini.

* * *

Two hours later after much trudging up and down, the two Nations had to admit they had forgotten where their car was.

"Ah well…" France said, pausing to look at himself in a shop window as they strolled down Oxford Street.

"Never mind, 'ah well', we can't just leave it," England said.

France wasn't listening, "I look rather gorgeous today, do I not, Arthur?"

"No, you don't," England said and dragged him away.

"You are so cruel!" France cried dramatically.

England hurried off, pretending he wasn't with the outrageous Frenchman.

"I need to visit my baby," France said suddenly, catching up with England.

"Your… your baby?" England stuttered. Surely not? "I didn't know you had any children… I mean apart from those islands of yours."

"Ah you mean Saint-Pierre, Saint-Martin, Martinique…" France raised an eyebrow, knowing that all these French sounding names would confuse England.

England stuttered, "Well yes…"

"I love zem all. But zis one is gorgeous…" France hurried off through the crowds. "She eez my baby!" he called back.

England, although pretending not to be with the flamboyant Nation, hurried after him. He could of course just catch a bus home but on the other hand, he didn't want to leave France loose on the streets of his beloved capital and he was also a little bit - no, quite a lot - intrigued as to this 'baby'.

* * *

"Isn't she gorgeous? Look at her, mon ami, have you ever seen anything so beautiful… I love her, I tell you…" France's eyes had that mystical glowy look that made England step back.

The French Nation had his nose pressed against the glass of the West London Ferrari dealer.

The object of his love was a flame-red Ferrari.

England shrugged, "I don't know, it looks a bit flashy to me. Also it's very low down. You might have trouble getting in it," England told him.

France ignored him, breathing hard on the glass in a most disturbing fashion, "I have to have it…"

"Ah well, you can't can you, until you've passed your test…" England said airily. "And at the rate you're going, that's going to take at least until 2057."

To England's horror, France ignored him, and stepped into the showroom. "Bonjour!" France called to a salesman who practically pounced on him.

"How can I help you, Sir?" the salesman asked.

France smiled, "Ah well, I was looking at ze gorgeous car over zere…"

England hurried in, "He can't afford it!" England told the man. He then turned to France, "It's 200,000 pounds! Do you know how much that is in euros?"

France smiled, "I have been saving up!" he turned to the man, "My boss has promised me one."

"You have a good boss," the salesman was saying, leading France around the car.

"You'll never get in that car with your bad back," England declared. "Now come on."

"Just sit in it, Mr er…?" the salesman opened the door and gestured to France.

"Bonnefoy… Francis Bonaparte de Chevalier Bonnefoy. And yes," here France glared at England, "I will sit in her."

England shook his head.

"Would Sir like a cup of tea?" another salesman approached them.

"I would absolutely love a cup of tea," England told him, "Milk, no sugar. Please don't put the milk in before the tea bag and please make it strong."

The salesman hurried off looking just a little aggrieved at being told how to make tea by a man in jeans with a hole in the bum.

"Ah zis is gorgeous. Feel the leather, Arthur!" France purred, sitting in the car.

"There's not a lot of room is there?" England said, peering in. "You won't get your weekly shopping in there."

"Would Sir like to get in as well?" the other salesman asked, looking a little excited and flushed - he obviously could smell a sale from one buyer but the negativity from the buyer's 'boyfriend' was a danger to his commission. He was sweating like a small Nation at World Meetings when Russia came and sat next to them, England thought.

England sighed and with great effort, creaking of joints and folding his back, got into the car alongside France.

"Isn't she gorgeous, Arthur?" France asked him. France had put on his Gucci sunglasses and along with his perfectly coiffeured hair and designer stubble, looked every bit the part of a millionaire playboy about town. "Don't you think she suits me?"

Actually, England had to admit that yes, the car did suit France and France suited the car. He couldn't imagine any other Nation, that he knew of anyway, who could pull it off. Arthur would rather have his fingernails pulled out than admit this so he just said, "No, you look like an idiot with more money than sense."

France's sunny smile disappeared for a moment but then re-appeared as the slimy salesman, dripping in grease England thought, poked his head in and said the magic words, "You only have to put down a 10% deposit for a test drive."

England laughed, "He doesn't have that type of money. He practically lives with me because he can barely afford a place here…" England obviously meant that France either lived in the French Embassy or in some secure safe house acquisitioned by the French Government. France was not allowed to stay in a hotel any more after various 'incidents' led to him being barred from every hotel in Central London.

The man raised an eyebrow, "Of course we take credit, and joint credit is not a problem."

"I'm not paying for this heap of junk!" England shouted. He then realised what the man said, "We're not a couple!" He yelled.

But the man had disappeared to get some paperwork.

"I have money…" France said and held up a gold credit card.

"You can't use that!" England said, appalled, "It's a government credit card. It's for emergencies."

"Zis is an emergency."

"10% deposit is… 20,000 pounds… Oh my God!"

France smiled, making annoying humming noises and fiddling with the buttons.

"I'm going to go and sort this out, don't bloody break anything, you idiot." England attempted to get out of the car. It was too low for him and he shuffled and struggled, "Francis, can you give me a shove and get me out of here?"

"But you said that I am not allowed to touch your derriere."

England growled at him but was mollified when the other salesman came back with a cup of tea, "Here you are, Mr er…?"

"Thank you, Kirkland. It's Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland," England said, sitting back and sipping the tea, which to his utmost disappointment was below par - weak and too milky. He drank it anyway.

Inside the sales office, there was much excitement about the millionaire minor celebrity who had come in to buy a Ferrari. (They were all sure they'd seen France somewhere, and were trying to work out which rock band he used to be in.)

One staff member expressed doubts - a young secretary said, as they fell over each other with the keys, "Shouldn't we do a background check on them first? I mean you can't just give them the keys to a quarter of a million pound car…" But everyone ignored her.

France looked as if he'd been given the holy grail as they passed him the ignition key and took his credit card from him. "Merci…" he purred.

The forecourt large glass doors were wheeled back ceremoniously.

The engine roared to life...

England, resigned to the fact that he would never get out of this 'blasted' car without help - probably a shoehorn, fastened his seatbelt and clutched his cup of tea. "Oh dear God…" he said as France drove the car out of the showroom.

England looked over his shoulder to see the salesmen waving at them as if they were celebrities. England shuddered. The poor humans, he thought, had no idea what they had unleashed.

The CD player mechanism slid out and France inserted a disc. The opening strains of 'Oh Yeah…' came on the stereo and France turned up the volume to full, pressed the button to lower the Ferrari's roof and they screeched down the street.

 **Author's Notes:**

 **This chapter is kind of inspired by Ferris Bueller's Day Off - especially the bit at the end 'Oh Yeah' by Yello...**


	9. Paradise by the Dashboard Light

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 9 Paradise by the Dashboard Light**

With the wind in their hair, France deftly drove the Ferrari down the street. England clutched his mug of tea. He really hoped it wouldn't rain. As he had said to France as the Frenchman had winked at a poor woman trying to cross the road with her children, he hadn't brought his umbrella nor was he wearing his raincoat.

France was not listening, his face was aglow and he was talking about the gorgeous lines, smooth interior and how it went 0 to 60 in as many seconds or some such rubbish.

"This isn't bloody Top Gear," England complained.

England had seen France like this before - in love. But this was unusual, for a few reasons, one that it was not over some poor unfortunate soul, and also because England usually placed himself elsewhere when such incidents occurred.

"I really fail to see the attraction," England said. Again. "I mean it's far too small. You'll never get a case of wine in that boot and I really fail to see how you can get anyone into the back seat unless they fold themselves in half."

France retaliated (or that's what it seemed to England) by singing, "Non, rien de rien! Non. Je ne regrette rien!"

England hated it when France sang. Not that France couldn't sing. He couldn't - well, not in England's opinion anyway. It was just that whatever France sang sounded filthy. England knew the song vaguely but had zero idea what it was about, something about 'riens'…

"Is this the way to Amarillo…" England sang vaguely and then stopped. "That damned song! Why is it in my bloody head?"

France had stopped at a pedestrian crossing. The car next to them looked horribly familiar. The passenger had wound down his window and was talking to some small yellow bird, whilst the driver looked very very gormless. The driver's hair was vertical and brushed the roof. There was a smell of stale beer and bacon.

France pulled down his sunglasses briefly and winked at the passenger alongside him.

Prussia (for it was he) glanced at him and then did a double take.

Denmark was oblivious and was chatting merrily to their poor customer who was sat in the back seat.

It was the worst taxi drivers in the world.

England groaned. "Drive, France, drive!" he yelled.

France put his foot down on the accelerator and they took off.

Prussia must have said something to Denmark because France was horrified to find the Uber cab right behind him at the next traffic lights.

"How can you not have lost him in this bloody supercar?" England berated.

France looked in the rear view mirror and made a lewd gesture at Denmark.

Denmark clearly was not really in the spirit of it, he was telling his customer his thousand year history. The poor woman had hailed their cab after emerging from Harrods with a pile of shopping hours ago.

Prussia turned to Denmark, "Den! Did you see that? Are you going to let those two get away with it?"

"I mean when it got to the 1500s dude, I was kinda used to them, but knives and forks aren't really made for Vikings. I remember when Norge tried to get us to use serviettes and…" Denmark was telling his customer, who was desperately trying to get a signal on her phone.

"Den! Bloody drive!" Prussia yelled.

Denmark duly put his foot on the accelerator before the lights had changed and went straight into the back of the car in front.

Unfortunately, of course, it was France's new love.

France was jerked forward and the airbag exploded breaking his designer sunglasses.

England would have laughed at this but found that he'd spilt his tea over his jeans. The tea, having been made from a vending machine in the Ferrari showroom, was hotter than the surface of the sun and so England was yelping and desperately trying to mop his sodden jeans.

"Bloody damnation!"

"My sunglasses!" France exclaimed. The Frenchman batted the airbag out of his face and slammed open the door.

But the door was promptly taken off by Denmark and Prussia's car as they skidded past them.

"Oh dear…" England said, struggling to get out of the car.

France just stood in dumb disbelief holding a car door.

"I don't zink I will be getting my deposit back," he said sadly.

"Yer zink… I mean er think?" England said sarcastically. (For some reason, in moments of high stress or when he spent time with France - which usually all came together, England had a tendency to adopt a French accent.)

France attempted to get the car door into the back of the Ferrari. "Will you help me, mon ami?" he asked exasperated.

"I can't get out!" England yelled.

"Oh."

A queue was starting to form behind them. France walked to the back of the car, noted that the bumper was bent beyond recognition and waved at the cars behind them and then decidedly put the car door to one side.

"I am going to get those two…" he said decisively and got back in the car.

England put his head in his hands, "Let's just go back and try to…" but he didn't get to finish. France had already set off, the wind whistling through the car now at a fair rate of knots.

With no driver's door and no roof it felt, for England as if he were in one of America's army jeeps. And that had never been a comfortable experience.

France had that look on his face, a serious look, that England dreaded. He'd seen it before a few times - in the Napoleonic Wars when they'd faced off on the battleground, during both World Wars when they'd actually fought alongside each other (for the first time in their 1000 year joint history) and when someone called his cooking 'crap'. That latter was usually himself or America.

"Bugger," England said as they sped along the North Circular Road, overtaking, undertaking and narrowly avoiding the number 7 bus.

England clutched his mug which by now only held a few dregs of tea and closed his eyes. He personally didn't think France was a good driver anyway, and it was only when they got to a roundabout that he remembered that he was supposed to teaching France to actually drive.

"Ah…" France hummed and looked at the traffic. He could see his quarry - Prussia and Denmark's Uber cab - stood at traffic lights just past the second exit. But France, having driven on the continent, found English roundabouts completely befuddling. "How do I…?"

England shook his head, "Go left, you foreign nitwit," he said. To him, it was simple. It was the European way of driving that was wrong in his opinion.

France did go left. Causing a 10-ton articulated lorry carrying potatoes to skid to avoid them and spill its load all over the roundabout. France sped on oblivious to the chaos in his wake.

* * *

"I mean I like Britain I really do…" Denmark was telling his customer. "And Jorvik is great. I'm going to tell you now about the time me and my Viking dudes invaded north England and we kicked up shit but then Arthur retaliated by baking scones. I thought what harm can a few scones do? But man… we were laid low for weeks. Him and his poncy bakers…"

"Please let me out… I've been in this cab now for four hours and we've passed my house three times," the woman pleaded.

"Dude yer gotta get going, Francy-pants is right behind us and he don't look happy," Prussia told Denmark.

"I'm not scared of France! Come on, Pru, it's bloody years since he invaded us. He's gone soft and all he's interested in now is taking off his pants," Denmark said laughing. "Pass me a beer."

"We were supposed to be proving to my bruder and Sweden and Finland that we could earn our own living."

Denmark gave him a sidelong look, "I know and we are!"

"We've earned…" here Prussia added up the cash, "£5.42."

"Really?" Denmark's eyes were wide in astonishment as they drove off again just as France caught up with them. "Today?"

"This week."

"It's more than Norge said we'd make though," Denmark said, deftly spinning the wheel so they did a U-turn right in the middle of an A road and driving past the other way, waving at a seething France as he did so.

Prussia high-fived him, "Too right!" he said. "I'm going to text bruder and tell him."

"Can you tell him that France is following us and won't leave us alone…" Denmark said. "I don't know how I'm supposed to do this taxi-ing job thingy with a French pervert following me. I mean I know I'm irresistible but France ain't my type."

"Head towards the countryside. Cows make France nervous," Prussia said with some authority. But not much.

"Really?"

"Or it might be crows. Or something…"

Denmark drove in and out of the traffic, around corners, narrowly avoiding pedestrians, sometimes mounting pavements and looked for a sign that said 'Countryside'. "I ain't seeing it, man."

"There!" Prussia pointed to a sign that said 'Hyde Park'.

"That's not the countryside!" the woman in the back said.

"Who are you?" both Nations turned to look at her.

"He won't follow us there," Prussia said confidently.

"Nobody can. Cars aren't allowed," the woman said woefully.

"That's pessimist talk, that is," Prussia told her. "You won't get anywhere with talk like that. I didn't get where I am by being a pessimist."

"Nah, he lives in his brother's basement," Denmark said, with no hint of irony.

"Lived. I lived in my brother's basement. I don't anymore! I live in this taxi. That is the power of positive thinking, my friend."

"Please let me out," the woman said.

* * *

"Please let me out," England said.

France wasn't listening. He had a determined expression on his face, his teeth were gritted and his broken sunglasses were askew on his nose.

"Aaaargh! We can't go in there! Cars aren't allowed!" England yelled as they sped past Buckingham Palace (England being so distressed that he didn't salute as they went past) and towards the entrance to Hyde Park.

"Such rules do not apply to moi," France said through gritted teeth. "Zay destroyed my love, my sunglasses and my pride and so zay must pay."

"You're going to pay, Francis. You're going to be paying a quarter of a million quid for this ruined car," England replied and screamed as they followed the battered cab through the entrance, scattering tourists in their ponchos and cagoules.

Several Japanese tourists took photographs as they passed and one shouted, "Are you filming the latest James Bond?"

"No! Call the police!" England yelled. He then realised what he'd said and pulled out his five-year-old Nokia and proceeded to dial 999.

France promptly took it off him and flung it out of the window that wasn't there.

"You mad scone! You'll bloody buy me another!"

France nodded. "It was crap anyway… You could not receive my photo messages, non?"

"Non! And thank God I couldn't." England said, utterly appalled at the very idea.

He soon found out why the tourists were all wearing rain ponchos and cagoules. The rain came down suddenly in sheets, in the only way it could in Britain. One minute it had been glorious sunshine, the next it was as if God himself had turned on some taps.

"Shut the bloody roof!" England yelled at France.

France, while trying to steer his way through an increasing throng of tourists and keep his eye on Denmark and Prussia, pressed every button available.

Firstly, the windscreen wipers flew backwards and forwards at triple the normal speed, then the wing mirrors turned in, the radio came on - the news telling them of a 'disturbance at the Royal Parks' - then England's seat flew forwards so that his face was flattened against the dashboard. Finally, the Ferrari's bonnet flew up and totally obscured the windscreen completely.

"Stop the bloody car!" England yelled as they crunched over something and there were distinct screams and yells.

Evidently, they had run over someone…

* * *

Ten minutes earlier…

"Antonio, this is so lovely but I don't know. I mean I think you're cute but…"

"My butt? You like my butt?" Spain aka Antonio Fernandez Carriedo stood up in his too-tight trousers and craned his head to look at his bottom.

"Oh! Antonio… Maybe Arthur was right and we shouldn't be together…" Belgium said, forgetting her own interpretation of England's advice - advice that he never actually gave.

Spain's happy smile faded and his eyes narrowed, "Inglaterra?" he muttered darkly.

Belgium stood up, "Perhaps we really do need a break…"

"A break? I would do anything for you, Louise. I would stand firm against the strongest foes. I would defy the Germanic tribes who took over your…" Spain did not get to finish as Belgium stared in horror at the car fast approaching.

Spain leapt out of the way at a speed he had not moved since the Peninsular Wars, he pulled Belgium with him and shielded her from the devastation.

But he was too slow to save his tomatoes…

"Soz Tony dude!" Prussia yelled as they sped past, leaving tire marks on Spain's laboriously produced picnic.

Spain was very very slow to anger. The last time he had been this angry had been during the War of the Spanish Succession but now he was livid. Especially when he saw his old adversaries France and England heading towards him in a tomato-red Italian-made car. The indignity of it. He tried to stand his ground but had to leap out of the way whilst France finished off what Prussia and Denmark had failed to demolish.

And neither of the Nations had apologised.

Spain said something very rude in Spanish and picked up probably the only unsquashed tomato and threw it as hard as he could at the retreating vehicle.

By some pure luck (or misfortune in England and France's case) the tomato flew low, hit the exhaust pipe and lodged there. The red Ferrari's engine stalled.

"Oh Antonio!" Belgium breathed.

Spain did not answer but strode up to the now stationary vehicle.

"Why have we stopped?" France asked England.

"I don't know but thank God we did…" England said and was about to continue when his door was wrenched open by a grim-looking Spain, who hauled him out.

"Ah! Thank you, Spain! That was jolly nice of you. You know, I've been trying to get out of this damned car for the last…" England didn't get to finish when he was punched by the angry Spaniard.

France, ever the brave soldier, jumped out of his seat and attempted to run for it.

He was halted by a soggy tomato hitting the back of his luxury designer suit. "Aaargh I am hit!" he yelled and fell face down.

Pretty soon everyone was covered head to foot in tomato. Including the car and several tourists…

* * *

"I really think I do look rather like Daniel Craig..." Arthur looked at himself in the skewed rear view mirror.

"Oh do shut up, Arthur."

"Si."

"Well I say..."

They were sat in the Ferrari on their way back to the Ferrari showroom. Belgium and Spain were crammed in the back seat - somehow. Both were covered in tomato, as were the once luxury leather seats.

They had had to beat a hasty retreat when someone had rather 'unsportingly' called the police. The sirens had not been an 'emergency laundry service' (France) or an 'emergency tomato delivery service' (Spain).

"Oh, Angleterre, I almost forgot, here is your date for tomorrow as per our agreement." France handed England an envelope. England shuddered, but then brightened when he realised it was a plane ticket to Rome.

"Rome?" he said. "I bloody hope it's not some daft Italian?"

"Non, it is a real girl!" France said.

"It had better not be a date with Romano!" Spain exclaimed.

Belgium hit him.

"I think it's time we dropped those two off…" England said to France.

France nodded.

* * *

The last England and France saw of them, Belgium was hitting Spain in the middle of Piccadilly and that wasn't a euphemism for anything.

"But I love you both!" Spain protested.

Belgium was distracted from causing too much damage to Spain by an Uber cab going past and a white face leering at her. A German voice yelled, "Yo, Königreich Belgien! Hit him harder!"

Prussia and Denmark had deposited their customer 10 miles from her home after regaling her with 1000 years of joint history and their 100 top beers of the world list. They'd been outraged that they didn't receive a tip.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Sir but we can't possibly give you your deposit back and will insist that you pay us damages for the car." The showroom manager said the word 'Sir' as if someone had stuck a cowpat under his nose.

England shrugged, "I did warn you. He's a reprobate." He handed the man the only thing that was not damaged - the Ferrari showroom mug. Coming from a man with a hole in the seat of his jeans and covered in squashed tomatoes (there were seeds in his hair) this was irony in its purest form. The showroom manager did not appear amused.

"We did a check on you two and you've both got criminal records as long as my arm," the man said.

It was France's turn to shrug. "Oh well..." he did not seem bothered. He did, however, kiss the Ferrari like a lover before they left. The remaining door fell off and France stepped back quickly.

"We're sending the bill to the French Embassy!" the man yelled after them.

This did make France stop, "Oh... I can pick up the other door? I remember where I left it..."

"Yeah well... bound to happen, never mind eh?" England whistled. "Just before you go bankrupt though, remember to replace my phone." He was already hailing a cab (not an Uber cab) and, after giving the driver a very large tip for the tomato stains on the upholstery, was dreaming of a long soak in the bath.

* * *

Two hours later...

After finally getting the last tomato seed out of his hair, England whistled as he came downstairs. He was off to Rome tomorrow for a date, hopefully with a proper girl. Perhaps an Italian girl? He switched on the television, hoping he had not missed Coronation Street and almost jumped out of his skin when France appeared at the window.

"Bloody hell! Can't you use bloody doors like anybody else? What's wrong with you?"

"Ze door is locked!"

"Yes! Against you!"

"I have a new mobile pour vous!"

England, against his better judgement, opened the door.

France slid in. To England's utter astonishment, the Frenchman was still covered in tomato.

"Here is your phone..." France handed him a package. "Just as I promised."

"Merci... I mean er... thank you.. but why are you still covered in tomato? What happened to your fancy fashion sense eh? You always say I look like a slob!"

"Ze Embassy has kicked me out and I thought..."

"Oh no... absolutely not. Absolutely. Not. No way." England was saying as he opened the package distrustfully. It was indeed a phone. A brand new Iphone.

"Please... oh Angleterre! It will only be until I get ze money to pay them back and I will not touch you or anyzing else!"

England stared at the phone, then at France. He had no idea that he would have no choice in the matter. He also had no idea yet but the phone was one digit difference from another Nation's telephone number...


	10. Scenes from an Italian Restaurant

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: England 2410, .fanatic, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 10 Scenes from an Italian Restaurant**

Warnings: Swearing (Romano)

England woke to the sound of idiocy. That was the only description he could think of. He had gone to bed very uneasy. For a start, his new phone did not have 'buttons' or a keypad and it had taken him a full hour to work out how to switch it on. Secondly the damned thing seemed to have a fault. He kept getting incomprehensible text messages in German. Thirdly, the ring tone appeared to be set to 'La Marsaillaise'. France told him that this was because it was a French phone. Finally, and most disturbingly, France was in the next bedroom.

England got out of bed, moved aside the chest of drawers he'd used as a barricade and stepped into the hallway. The row was coming from the bedroom France had requisitioned.

France was loudly arguing with someone and that someone was arguing back.

It was America.

"Aw! Why has he got my bedroom?" America whined at England.

England felt a little guilty. He'd shown France the two spare bedrooms. One did not have a bed and France had raised an eyebrow.

"What am I supposed to sleep on? Am I supposed to levitate?"

"I can get you an airbed," England sighed.

"I am too old for such things!" France had said.

"Listen, pal…"

France always knew he was in trouble when England called him 'pal'.

"But, Angleterre, have a heart… I am older zan you!"

England had shown him the other spare room.

"I did not know you had a child living with you!" France had exclaimed.

"Very funny…"

France had stared at the Superman duvet cover, the Marvel posters, the action figures strewn on the floor, the train set, the lifesize cardboard cut-out of Darth Vader and lastly the Stars 'n' Stripes flag on the wall.

It was France's removal of this latter article that had sparked the argument that morning.

"Tell him! This is my room!" America told England. "He's making it all…" here America paused. "French!"

England sighed, "It's only yours for when you visit. You don't live here."

"Neither does Francy!" America retorted.

France had hung his own flag on the wall, put up a poster of Paris and had emptied his suitcases.

There was now a disturbing array of flowery shirts, strong 'parfum', roses and wine.

The room looked like it belonged to someone with a personality disorder.

"France is just staying here for a while," England told America. "A short while," he added, looking at France with emphasis.

"Oui little Amerique."

America hated being called 'little' and he scowled, "It ain't fair. He's ruining my room and look what he did to my soldiers," America went over to a table that had various toy soldiers and lego constructions on it. He picked some up, "General Patton didn't do stuff like that with his men! This was the Battle of Normandy, I was there, dude! We kicked arse… we didn't party like this and I mean I know you two are, yer know…" he didn't finish.

France smiled.

"Alfred, how on earth can this be the Battle of Normandy? You've got Roman soldiers on there, Batman and if I'm not mistaken, Harry Potter, who I doubt very much would have been even old enough to be at the Battle of Normandy." England said, ignoring America's implication about him and 'Francy'.

"Heroes, dude."

"Also I was there at the Battle of Normandy and I'm fairly certain there were no dragons."

"Well you were probably having one of your tea-breaks," America said.

"I'm not discussing this. I have a plane to catch," England hurried out to get ready.

The bathroom stank of French perfume, wine and roses. He shoved aside all the various French 'crap' and took a quick shower. He could still hear the arguing over the running water.

"Cheese-eating surrender monkey!" America was yelling.

* * *

England was by now going through his wardrobe. He really should get some new clothes, he decided and he should have gone to the dry cleaners. Everything of any decency was in the laundry basket. He considered borrowing from Francis, but the idea of wearing Francis' trousers turned his stomach. There was just his Guards uniform, his Army uniform, a pair of jeans he'd regretted buying as soon as he left the store, a pirate uniform which he caressed lovingly, or a tweed suit. Everything else was either covered in tomato or blood. He blamed France for this.

"You look like a Grandpa," America told him. They were driving through London. America had offered to drop England off at the airport in his huge 'Hummer' thing.

England, in his tweed suit, had thought he looked rather dashing. He had climbed into the passenger seat of the huge black 'idiotic monstrosity' with the aid of the kitchen stool. What was it about these foreign cars, he thought. They were either too low or too high.

The Mini had been delivered back to his house sometime that morning, but was undrivable. He had tried to explain this to France. "It's got a bloody great wheel clamp on it, you French idiot!" he'd shouted.

France had shrugged. "So?"

"So? Are you bloody high?"

France had just ignored him and proceeded to stir something garlicky on the hob.

"It says here to have it unclamped, we… I mean you… have to pay a £500 fine…"

France had dropped his large spoon and looked appalled.

America, for his part, had been fascinated by the Mini, "Jeez… it's amazing. And it's a real car? Like you can drive it for real? Wow… Everything in this country is so old, small and broken," he'd said looking at the older Nations - England complaining about his bad back and France complaining about the 'childish' bedroom.

England had then called out to his Bentley, "Bye bye my love…"

France, still inside the house, held his hands to his heart, "He still loves him…" he muttered.

"Gay," America had said.

* * *

The flight was gloriously uneventful and free of any fellow Nations, principalities or regions. In fact England was suspicious. He'd brought an overnight bag and his instructions. It was rather like being a spy. France had refused to say who his date was but that it was a 'real girl'.

It was a 'real' girl, France was right there. Unfortunately, the rifle now stuck in England's face was also very real.

"Erm Switzerland? Could you stop waving that rifle around?" England said nervously.

Liechtenstein, aka Lily Zwingli, sat opposite him in the cosy little Italian bistro named 'Cafe Vargas'. The name should have rung a huge bell but didn't.

"Bruder, put your gun away! It's Mr England. He's a gentleman!" Lily admonished.

"He hangs around with France. We all know he lives with him!" Switzerland said, glaring at England.

"I don't… we're not…" England began.

"Who set this up anyway? France? Why are you two meeting?" Switzerland continued, ignoring England's protestations.

Lily seemed to view the other thing as an exciting escapade. Her eyes shone. "Please tell us about your date with Miss Belarus. Did you really spurn her, Mr England?"

England almost fell off his chair, "No of course not!"

"There's a price on your head," Switzerland said ominously, still holding the rifle. He appeared to be pleased and England wouldn't have been surprised if it were Switzerland who was his assassin.

In fact, England was now sure France was really trying to get him killed.

Perhaps, if England could persuade Switzerland to put his rifle away then he might have quite a nice night.

Cafe Vargas was quite a nice little place and well-renowned in Rome, according to 'trip advisor'. Or would be if it weren't for the surly waiter.

"Si?" Lovino Vargas, joint owner of Cafe Vargas, glared at England and Switzerland but smiled charmingly at Lily.

"Erm… oh Romano…" England sighed. Why oh why did most of his fellow bloody Nations have jobs in restaurants? (Most of course did not have jobs in restaurants - but this seemed to be England's experience over the last few days.)

"Si? What you want?" Romano growled.

"Are we still getting the 10% discount?" Switzerland asked abruptly.

Romano shrugged. He was going to call him a 'cheese bastard' but didn't.

"Francis is paying," England told them confidently. He held up Francis' Banque de France credit card.

"Well I know you're paying. It's only right the man should pay for the lady," Switzerland said, in rather a sexist way, England thought.

"Yes, but I'm not on a date with you, am I?" England countered.

Romano waved his arms around, "Hey we're not here to judge!" he winked at Lily.

Lily smiled shyly back.

"Right… we'll have the full starters and bring lots of bread and some antipasta, beer for me, water for Lily, England will have warm beer…"

"I'm old enough for wine, bruder," Lily said.

"Is antipasta the opposite of pasta?" England asked.

Romano glared at him, wrote something which was probably very rude on his pad and stomped off to the kitchen where he shouted the order at the poor chef.

"Will it be like the ravioli I have at home?" England asked Lily.

Lily, who was still arguing with her brother, nodded absently at him.

"Like Heinz… I have it on toast," England continued.

There was a crash from the kitchen.

Lily frowned. Even Vash looked as if he were going to laugh. But then he didn't.

"So do you come here often?" England began.

"No she doesn't. But I do because we get a discount," Switzerland said.

"They do, don't they bruder," Lily pointed over at one of the booths in the corner that England had completely missed, even though the place was empty. A couple huddled together, holding hands over the table, a burning candle lighting up their faces, and a large tomato pizza.

"Is that Spain and Belgium?" England whispered.

"Yes it is. Leave them alone, Mr England. We all heard what you did. It was awful."

"Hey! It wasn't me who was driving!"

"I wasn't talking about that. I was talking about the advice you gave Miss Belgium and breaking them up!"

"Advice? What bloody advice?" England looked confused.

But their waiter reappeared with bowls of pasta, breadsticks and garlic bread which he slammed down in front of them. He smiled at Lily, only to have a rifle stuck in his face and then stomped off yelling in Italian.

England looked up suspiciously, "I have spaghetti on toast at home," he said slowly.

Lily put a finger to her lips, "Shush," she said with good reason.

The sound of the Italian argument in the kitchen was now reaching a crescendo. It appeared to be largely one-sided.

"I'm surprised you still cook for yourself now France is living with you," Lily said digging into her pasta.

"We're not a couple."

Before Lily could say something to this, Romano had reappeared and was berating Spain about something.

Belgium said to the Spaniard, "Why did we come here? I mean it's obvious you two can't leave each other alone."

Romano slammed something down and yelled, "I was only saying you should eat the damned pizza and stop staring into each other's eyes!"

"They don't like my pizza?" came a dramatic lament from the kitchen.

"See? You've upset the chef!" Romano said.

Spain looked torn between two lovers. Well, actually just the one lover and she looked as if she were about to leave.

"Er Romano? Can I have an espresso?" Lily asked, politely.

"Si Signorina!"

"What's that?" England asked, cutting up his spaghetti with a knife and fork. His beer was not nice. Honestly, foreigners could not serve up a decent beer. Lager, in his view, was just for louts or Danes or usually both. "I'm thinking of getting more acquainted with foreign food."

"It's a small cup of Italian coffee," Lily explained.

"And one for me!" England called to Romano.

"Tea bastard now drinks coffee…" Romano muttered only to shout in Italian at some poor soul in the kitchen. "Un espresso, fratello. Questo è stupido".

"Sei uno stupido!" someone countered.

There were further arguments about who was 'stupido' until Romano yelled something about 'potato bastard holding them back'.

England only knew this as Lily translated for him.

Romano slammed back out as a pan whizzed over his head.

"Germany is my best friend and he put a lot of money into this business!" Italy said as he emerged from the kitchen, a chef's hat askew on his head, a large pizza dough in his hands, his apron covered in tomato. He ran back in when Romano turned and glared at him.

Lily translated all this also.

"Wow… poor bugger. I thought Germany had more sense…" England said as Romano put a very tiny cup of something dark and hot in front of him. "What's this?" England asked.

"Espresso," Romano said and walked away, scowling at Spain as he did so.

Spain was by now on his knees in front of Belgium and begging her to stay. "But Lou… I've always loved you… even when I was married to Austria. He meant nothing to me… but don't tell him that, he's sensitive…"

"Foreigners…" England muttered and downed his espresso in two gulps.

"He should have some dignity," Switzerland said, shoving breadsticks into his jacket pockets.

"Two more cups of this expresso stuff!" England called.

"Idiota!"

"It's very strong," Lily cautioned.

* * *

Four espressos later…

"Can any of you read these texts? I've had four today. I think there's something wrong with my phone…" England twitched, his knees jiggling beneath the table, his eyebrows were going up and down like restless caterpillars.

"There's something wrong with your brain," Switzerland said grumpily.

A good free dinner was being ruined by England.

"Can you see, can you, can you, can you?" England jigged over to Belgium's table where Spain was attempting to woo Belgium back.

"How many coffees have you had, Arthur?" Belgium asked.

"Go away, England! I'm trying to get Miss Belgium back!" Spain said, ineffectually trying to shove England away.

"Oh Antonio…"

"About four, Lou. Just small cups," England jerked and twitched and then spun round, "Can anyone hear a buzzing?"

"Has he been texting you or ringing you? He can't keep away from you!" Spain said jealously to Belgium.

"I can't bloody work out how to bloody ring or text anyone! It's mental! Mad! No keyboard!" England exclaimed, oblivious to Spain's jealousy. Belgium shook her head, "It's onscreen," she said trying to be patient. She turned to Spain, "No he hasn't and it's nothing to do with you anyway. You're one to talk, I know you still love Romano."

Belgium shook her head, "It's onscreen," she said trying to be patient. She turned to Spain, "No he hasn't and it's nothing to do with you anyway. You're one to talk, I know you still love Romano."

Romano came out, clunked a large bill in front of Spain, hit him on the head with a metal tray and stomped back to the kitchen.

"Onscreen keyboard? What's that? How can that be?" England was talking so fast he was barely comprehensible. But to England, everyone else was moving and talking very slooooowly.

Belgium sighed and showed England the basics of a smartphone.

"You need to swipe it," Belgium said.

England did and the phone shot across the room and landed in Switzerland's pasta.

Lily was watching all this as if it were a cabaret.

Belgium retrieved the phone and apologised to Switzerland who immediately insisted on a refund from Romano, who promptly ignored him.

"There, I rang your house!" Belgium told England.

"How do you know his number?" Spain asked, rubbing his head where Romano had hit him. Belgium ignored him. In fact everyone ignored him.

England put the phone to his ear, inadvertently putting the phone on speakerphone (for everyone's entertainment), fearful of who might answer.

It was France.

"Bonsoir! Je suis Francais. Zis is Francis Napoleon de Chevalier Bonnefoy, you have got ze household of Monsieur Kirkland but he is not here, non? I can take a message, especially if it is very saucy… Oh lala!"

There was a complete cacophony of noise down the phone.

"Bagpipes!" England hissed. He had to hold the phone away from his ear.

"My God! It sounds as if someone is torturing a cat," Spain gasped.

"While falling downstairs!" someone else added.

It did. The sound was indescribable. Yet the Nations who heard it decided to try to describe it.

"It sounds like an ill cow," Belgium said.

"It sounds like a riot," Lily said, looking very excited at the prospect.

"A huge party without you, I bet. You should go home," Switzerland said.

"Has someone died?" Romano asked, coming in.

"Died? My cooking is wonderful!" Feliciano cried, looking close to tears. He came in, wringing his apron in despair. Romano shooed him back into the kitchen.

"France! You bugger. Why is my bloody brother, Hamish, there? I'll bloody kill you both!" England yelled down the phone.

There was sudden silence on the other end and then "Please leave a message after the bleep… bleeeeep," and the phone went dead.

"So it was just an answering machine then?" Spain said dozily.

"You're so stupid, tomato bastard," Romano told him.

"Oh Romano, why are you being so mean?" Spain said sadly.

The phone then rang and England dropped it in shock. Somehow 'La Marseillaise', as bad as it was in England's eyes, had been replaced with a tune far worse as a ringtone. The opening bars of 'Is this the way to Amarillo' rang through the restaurant.

Belgium very quickly picked it up and swiped the screen. A very loud angry German voice yelled at them all.

"How did you do that, Signore Inghilterra?" Italy said, wide-eyed.

"Wut? I mean what?"

"Potato bastard…" Romano muttered.

"What?" England repeated.

Switzerland turned to Lily, "Time we were going…"

"Oh bruder, this is so much fun. More fun than we had that time we visited the Pope with Prussia and he put a whoopie cushion underneath…"

"Now!"

"Your bill!" Romano yelled, running after them in the midst of the German tirade that never seemed to end.

"Switch it off!" England yelled.

"Luddy…" Italy said sadly as Belgium switched off the German.

"You can't leave without paying," Romano yelled at Lily and Switzerland.

"France is paying," Switzerland told him.

"Why is Germany ringing and texting me? I mean why? It's ridiculous if he thinks him and Chancellor Merkel can bully me. They've got another think coming. Another thing coming. Or is it think?" England was still on a caffeine high and talking very very fast.

On the other side of the room, Romano was squaring up to Switzerland, "Why is France paying? France not here!" Romano shouted, waving his arms around.

"Don't yell at me, young South Italy," Switzerland said, brandishing his rifle.

England was still asking anybody who listened the age-old question, "Why is Germany texting and ringing me?"

"Arthur be quiet will you, this is serious," Belgium said.

"You never call him Mr England, do you?" Spain said dramatically.

"There is no France here!" Romano yelled.

"England, give them the credit card," Switzerland said.

"You're as mean as…" Romano struggled to think.

"Fratello please calm down and can someone ring back Germany? He sounded really upset," Italy looked anguished.

"…Austria!" Romano finished.

England dug in his pockets, "I say old chaps, just calm down eh?"

Belgium was trying to tell an inconsolable Spain that no, she didn't love England.

"Austria! I am nothing like him! You take that back!" Switzerland yelled.

"You're a cockblocker!" Spain told England.

"How dare you!" Switzerland yelled and fired his rifle in the air, bringing down a large part of the ceiling tiles.

"My beautiful restaurant!" Italy moaned.

"Just pay the damned bill, England. Lily - we're leaving!" Switzerland announced. "And I'm never setting foot in this place again."

"Good!" Romano said, opening the door for him.

"No!" Italy wailed. "I'm ruined!" he flung himself to the floor and lay there.

"You can come and live with me, Feliciano," Spain said consolingly. An act of kindness that hit him in the face.

"Oh yes! I know you tried to swap me for him!" Romano exclaimed.

"You just can't keep your hands off them, can you?" Belgium shouted and stormed out.

"Lou!" Spain leapt to his feet, "Don't leave me!" he turned to England, "This is your fault!"

"Me? What did I do?" England was honestly confused and then he said, "Wait! Is that Belarus outside?"

They all turned to see the shadow of a blue dress and long platinum blond hair backing away from the window and merging into the darkness.

"And you spurned her too, Mr England," Lily said in a hushed tone.

"Spurned?" England went pale.

"Right, that's it, we're definitely leaving…" and Switzerland left, dragging Lily and calling for a taxi. He ran back, pocketed a load of cheese and bread and hurried back out, scowling at them all.

"You are under a shadow of doom, Signore Inghilterra," Italy said sadly, lying prone on the floor.

"You mean because Francis lives with me? Yes, I gathered that."

"No, I meant Miss Belarus is stalking you…"

* * *

Four hours later found England and Spain elbows-deep in soap suds. Neither had been able to pay for their meals and were washing up. England cursed France, Spain and all his fellow Nations. Spain cursed him back and several times they bumped each other into the sink.

Romano stood over them yelling, "Tea bastard! Tomato bastard! Wash up properly! You keep missing bits!"

Feliciano fell asleep while stirring bolognese sauce and had to be woken up. The food was delicious but frequently an hour late. And the excitement of the two Italies when actual customers walked in ("Humans! We have real human customers!" Romano had yelled) was not to be missed.

* * *

England finally left at past midnight, exhausted, soaking wet, covered in dried bolognese sauce. He shared a taxi with Spain, who promptly fell asleep on his shoulder. He got out at the Embassy and left the Spaniard in the taxi and told the driver to drop the sleepy Nation at the Vatican. "Let them sort him out," England thought.

When he climbed into bed he failed to see a strand of platinum hair and a blue ribbon lying on his pillow….


	11. Breaking Glass

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, , ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 11 - Breaking Glass**

England could tell straight away that Hamish, his elder brother, had been at his house. There were two empty Scotch Whisky bottles on the doorstep. There was also a Scotland flag hoisted on the chimney. The kitchen was a riot of tartan.

"Where is he?" England demanded as soon as he walked in.

"Who, mon ami?" Francis asked, nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly. He was putting the kettle on and wiping his hands on his apron. He looked England up and down and raised an eyebrow. "You are covered in sauce."

"I know that!" England said. The flight over had been an embarrassment. But at least no-one had sat next to him. "Where is my damned brother?" England asked.

"Your brother? You mean your delightful Scotland? Hamish MacWhisky?"

"That's not his bloody name!"

"He is my best friend."

"Good, then you can move in with him in bloody Glasgow."

Francis looked horrified at the thought. "I cannot! It is too cold pour moi, there is no wine and he said I could not move in wiz him."

"So you asked?" England couldn't decide if he was hurt or relieved or angry.

"Mais oui. I thought that you did not want me living here?"

"Well yes, of course I bloody don't…"

"Well zen," France said. "Anyway, as I am living here…"

"You're not bloody living here."

"But I thought you said I could stay here…"

"Only until you've paid your debts to the French Government for that damned car you destroyed."

"Ah oui… I calculated how long it would take me to pay it off."

"Good, so you are paying it off," England nodded, "Bloody good and..?"

"10 euros a month…" here France took out his phone and began tapping in numbers. "I will be leaving in the year 4010…"

England almost fell over, "You what? Are you bloody kidding me?"

"Non, I am not kidding you."

"10 euros a month?"

"I have to live and buy my wine and beautiful clothes! I cannot live like you!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

France looked him up and down, "You look like a tramp, mon ami. I am very sorry but the clothes that you wear are abysmal."

"I got into a disagreement with Spain. And another thing - that bloody date you arranged for me…"

"Avec Lily? Ah oui…" France smiled.

"Her bloody nutty brother turned up with his rifle. But you knew that didn't you?"

"Ah yes! Miss Belgium told Poland who told Hungary who rang me."

Still reeling from the revelation that he could be stuck with France for the next 2000 years, England staggered upstairs. "Get yourself a bloody job and pay people back you lazy idle…" he slammed the door and so France could no longer hear him.

* * *

When England had stuffed his tweed suit into a bag for the dry-cleaners and pulled on the pair of jeans he'd bought and wished he hadn't, together with a very old 'Led Zeppelin 1971 tour' t-shirt, he slouched back downstairs.

"Sacre bleu!" France said. "What are you wearing?"

"Seeing as all my clothes are either covered in tomato, bolognese sauce or blood and in the laundry basket, I had no choice," England told him.

"Laundry… ah oui… Laundry…" France hopped from foot to foot as if he were about to run for it.

"What do you mean?" England narrowed his eyes at France's shiftiness.

"Now before you start to get angry, I have to tell you that in Le France, zere is delivery service for laundry," France said, trying to placate him.

England stared at him and then outside at the bin-bags at the foot of his driveway, now being hauled out by two men in high-vis jackets who flung them into a van with 'Clothes donations' on the side.

France yelped, even before he was hit.

"You utter bastard!" England yelled and chased him with a large wooden spoon.

However, they were halted in their tracks when the doorbell rang.

"Yes?" England answered, holding a spoon, his hair wild.

"We have a delivery for a…" here the delivery man squinted at the clipboard, "Mr Bonnefoy?"

England's left eyebrow twitched, "Really?" he asked and then turned, yelling, "Francis! What did you order?"

Francis appeared suddenly and without warning behind him. "Ah! Merci beaucoup!" he told the delivery man.

"What did you order?" England repeated.

"Nothing, mon ami," France said as the delivery man disappeared telling them he'll 'bring it round'.

"You will replace all my clothes, Francis."

"Oui! I will. You have ze credit card, non? You can order whatever you like. Your old clothes were a problem, non?"

England shrugged. He had a point, they were bloody awful.

France tossed him a clothing catalogue and handed him a mug of tea, "Zere, knock yourself out."

"Why are the lingerie pages marked?" England called from the lounge, sipping his tea, momentarily mollified and determined to spend a lot of France's money on decent clothes.

But France did not answer. "You are so strong," he told the delivery men as they plonked a huge wooden crate at the door.

The men hurried off, leaving the crate in the doorway...

"What in God's name?" England spluttered.

"Have you ordered ze clothes, mon ami? You need to hurry before my Government realises I still have ze credit card."

"Never mind all that, what is that?" England said, quite reasonably he thought, as the crate blocked doorway.

"Eet eez wonderful, non? Eet eez my Louis XIV bureau."

"What?"

"A desk."

"I know what a bloody bureau is, you mad Frenchman. Are you pissing me about?"

France didn't answer this but opened the crate. "Ah, look. Eet eez wonderful. Très belle."

"Where are you going to put it?" England asked and then wished he hadn't as France looked him up and down lingeringly. "It's not bloody staying here."

"Eet eez very valuable, priceless in fact. Eet eez worth more than all your rubbish antiques."

"It can't be worth more than my grandfather clock. Queen Vic gave me that."

"Thousands and thousands."

"Zen sell eet," England said in a fake French accent, "But just get it out of my bloody doorway."

* * *

The bureau was finally out of the 'bloody doorway', it was now halfway up the stairs with France at the upper end of it and England at the other or 'downhill' as England thought it.

England had to help move it in the end, it was either that or as the bloody thing was blocking the doorway, he would be stuck in the house with France forever.

"To my left, mon ami."

"It won't bloody go any further bloody left, mon ami," England said through gritted teeth. "Are you actually holding up your end, anyway?" he added as he felt as if his arms were going to drop off. He realised that they really didn't make furniture this solid or heavy any more as, for the thousandth time, he muttered, "Damn bloody blasted sodding thing…" at the sheer weight of the thing.

"Gauche!" France all but shouted.

"Don't you bloody gauche me, you tart!" England yelled back.

"Droite!"

England shook his head, "It won't droite or gauche, you idiot!"

England was right, it wouldn't. The desk was well and truly stuck between the first and second landing, at the turn of the stairs.

France rubbed his hair with one hand and then stuck his hand in his trouser pocket, pulled out his phone and looked as if he were texting someone.

"Are you bloody holding this damned thing up at all?" England shouted.

France nodded.

"Bloody liar, I can see both your bloody hands!"

England's own phone beeped and he ignored it. He'd had several of those annoying German text messages that morning and he was still none the wiser. He'd also got a phone call from a breathy woman who had laughed hilariously at him without saying who she was and then hanging up and then a very teary Italian first singing down the phone and then, when he had shouted back, they had started crying. He had hung up then. It was all very perplexing.

"Put your bloody hands back on this," England shouted at him.

France was 'gabbering' into the phone and then said in English, "I know, he cannot get enough of me. Listen to him…"

England would have hit him if there wasn't a 300-year-old bureau between them.

France hung up. "I have called for aidez, non?"

"This bloody thing is stuck. I say we just light a match and burn the damned thing," England told him simply.

France shook his head, "Non, we will try again. You will go to your left and I will pull it zis way."

England wasn't really listening, which is probably the reason for what happened next.

"Hey! Why is there a blue hair ribbon on my bannister?" England asked and then disaster befell them.

England's grip had lessened and the bureau, that had been immovable for the past twenty minutes, slipped down the stairs towards him.

England did not have time to think, he just jumped down the stairs as the 300-year-old, priceless antique desk sped towards him and then smashed through the picture window.

There was a stunned silence.

France went very pale.

England was about to laugh at the absurdity of it when he heard his neighbour shout, "Oh my God! Your poor car!"

Arthur convulsed and went through the five stages of grief in the longest five minutes of his life.

"My… beloved… Bentley…" England spluttered, clutching his chest. That damned desk, that French abomination had crushed his beautiful car.

France, for once, was utterly speechless. He knew that even a cup of tea couldn't fix this. He was wondering what platitudes he could utter that would save him from having his precious genitalia crushed by a vengeful England when he heard something that gave him hope.

A German voice yelled, "Mein Auto! Mein Auto!"

"Allemagne!" France said with some relief, which was actually going to be short-lived.

England sagged to his knees.

"A desk has just landed on my car! What is wrong with you people?" Germany yelled.

France stuck his head out of the now open window and looked out. "Eet was Germany's car, mon ami," he said quietly and needlessly. He seemed to think this was okay and patted England on the shoulder and slunk off.

England stood up, took some deep breaths and headed downstairs. France was right. England's prized vintage Bentley was unmarked. Germany's one-year-old top of the range Mercedes-Benz was not. A desk on which the 'Sun King' had once composed his letters to his many lovers was embedded in its roof.

"Who is responsible for this?" Germany yelled.

"Well as to responsibility, that could be pretty much anyone I suppose."

"What? Are you high?" Germany asked him. The German's face was red, his hair ruffled and he looked the angriest England had seen him for a long time.

"Why are you here anyway?" England asked, genuinely interested. Germany never visited him. Their mutual dislike of each other - although slightly less than the dislike they felt for many of their fellow Nations and amplified after the two World Wars - together with a similar social ineptitude for dealing with visitors unless such visitors had given minimum two weeks' notice, meant that they rarely saw each other outside of the World meetings.

"Your lodger, Francis, rang me for help," Germany growled and glared at his car.

"He's not my bloody lodger!"

France suddenly appeared, "Oh Allemagne! You are here! I'm so glad you could come and…" here Francis affected outrage, "Your beautiful car! But oh! My beloved bureau!"

Germany glared at him.

France had obviously been thinking this up. England narrowed his eyes.

"Ze bureau was insured for over a quarter of a million euros! Eet was owned by ze great King Louis!"

"You're such a bloody dickhead, France," England told him, his arms folded.

Germany was looking from one to the other. "You are both degenerates. You ring me and then when I turn up to help you, you drop an antique desk on my beautiful car."

England could sympathise with the German but really didn't like being cobbled in with France and called a 'degenerate'. Even if it was true.

"I say old chap! I think that's a bit much! Do you honestly think that we deliberately dropped an antique priceless desk on your car just for fun?"

"For the insurance!" Germany yelled. "We all heard what France did to that Ferrari." Germany said this as if France had committed some indescribable act with the aforesaid vehicle.

"Zat bureau is my most prized possession!" France said. "My heart is broken!" his phone rang and he quickly glanced at it and then said, "Ah I have a prior engagement…" and then to Germany and England's astonishment, he flung on a jacket with that French gay abandon that was completely absent in both Germany and England, lit a cigarette, winked at the two aghast Nations, and strolled off whistling.

"You bloody get back bloody here, you bloody tart!" England yelled. He then hurriedly shut up as he saw there was quite a crowd of neighbours gathering around.

But France had already jumped into an Uber taxi (not Denmark and Prussia's) and was being whisked away to some 'assignation'.

"You will be getting a bill for this damage, Großbritannien." Germany said.

"Why don't you bloody claim on your insurance?" England asked.

"Because I will lose my no claims bonus! This is your fault!"

"How on earth do you come to that bloody conclusion?" England said. They were still stood on the driveway and England refused, absolutely and utterly refused to even think about inviting the German inside his house for a cup of tea. It went against all his sensibilities but there was no way he was going to switch the kettle on for this man.

"You and France threw a desk through that window just as I pulled up! France rang me asking me for help… I should have known it was a trap."

"Are you bloody high? Why on earth would we trap you? Get a bloody grip."

"The other Nations have all said that you're losing your grip. You've become a ladies' man, you keep splitting up Miss Belgium and Spain and you forced Switzerland to escort Miss Lily on that date with you. He thinks you're not right in the head. And lastly, they're all saying you spurned Miss Belarus and she has put a curse on you." Germany listed all England's predicaments and failed dates with some satisfaction and distaste. He was about to say something about England's current attire, believing that England was having some kind of mid-life crisis.

"It's all lies! And Switzerland is a nutjob. You know that better than anyone!" England protested. "But the curse is probably true…" he added sadly.

Germany looked as if he were about to expand on England's dating problems, which seemed to be the gossip of the other Nations but England interrupted him, "By the way, why have you been harassing me? You've been texting me and ringing me. It's a bloody nuisance, is what it is," England said.

"Was?" Germany asked (meaning 'what' in German).

"Vas?"

"What?"

"What?"

England shook himself, "Well?"

"Ringing you? What do you mean?" Germany asked finally.

England pulled out his phone and with great difficulty, pulled up the German text messages and triumphantly showed them to Germany.

Germany read them and glared, his red face getting redder, "Why have you got Austria's phone?"

"What?"

"I suppose you think this is funny?" Germany said, looking ready to explode. He honestly thought his fellow Nations were playing pranks on him - it wouldn't be the first time.

England frowned. This was just weird.

"It's typical of Austria to get out of his responsibilities. The German economy isn't going to support him forever," Germany told him.

England stared at him. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

Germany just came out with a rant in German that sounded very much like a declaration of war. It was actually: 'Austria was little more than a lazy aristocrat who did nothing but play Mozart and ponce around the garden sniffing flowers and passing his phone to England just to get out of his responsibilities'. Clearly, Germany could not believe that he had been ringing the wrong number…

Before England could declare war first and thus precipitating a third World War, Armageddon was halted by a very unlikely person.

A chill descended. So much so that both Nations shivered. The sky darkened, and sleet began to fall.

A sense of creeping dread pervaded the air. All the neighbours disappeared into their homes. And then a tall figure emerged from a blizzard of hail, sleet and snow. "Privet!" it called.

"Oh no….."

 **Next Chapter:**

 **An evening at home with Arthur…**


	12. Lost in the Flood

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, , ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 12 - Lost in the Flood**

It was morning, dawn crept through the windows and England was grateful that the night was over. He had been sat in the same position on his sofa for the last 8 hours. The reason for this was because he was afraid. The reason he was afraid was because Russia's large blond head was in his lap and every time England moved, the sleeping Nation growled.

Russia's snoring sounded like a freight train with an angry bear on board.

* * *

The day before…

Germany saw Russia and beat a hasty retreat. "You'll be hearing from my lawyers," he told England as he prepared to go. Quickly.

"Me? Why?" Russia asked.

"Not you. I mean England."

"Why not me? Why shouldn't I hear from your lawyer?" Russia asked.

"Because you didn't throw a desk onto my car." Germany said after a pause. He pointed to ensure Russia knew he wasn't just leaving him out on purpose.

"I'll call you a cab," England said, praying that Prussia and Denmark's cab would be the said cab.

"I could have! I can throw desks out of windows," Russia walked around the car, examining it with professional interest. "Very good. But I would have dropped it on the windscreen," Russia said and promptly smashed the windscreen with his fist.

"Aaargh! My car! What is wrong with you?" Germany yelled.

England smiled as he ordered the cab.

Russia stepped towards Germany and loomed over him, "I don't like you, Germany," he said simply.

Germany stepped back. "This is unacceptable," he muttered.

"I think they've done quite a good job of destroying your car," Russia said, misinterpreting the word 'unacceptable'. "I would have done a better job though."

"I'm not saying they haven't done an acceptable job, I mean… oh never mind."

"Erm, Russia why are you here?" England ventured as he hung up the phone.

Russia turned to look at him, "I have business with you," he said mysteriously and poked him hard in the chest. So hard in fact that England was convinced it would leave a bruise.

"Wha…wha… what business?" England stammered. Nobody ever wanted to have business with Russia.

"Well, I'll leave you to that," Germany said as a taxi pulled up. "I'm sure you have a lot to talk about." He got in the taxi. "My lawyer will be in touch."

"Why? We ain't done nothing!" the driver said.

"Oh no, not you two!" Germany said with dismay.

England smiled.

It was Denmark and Prussia.

"You told me to get out and get a job," Prussia told his brother.

"Yes I did, didn't I…" Germany admitted as the taxi screeched down the road. "I was just hoping that you'd be hundreds of miles away from me."

England waved happily after them, cringing at the fading bars of 'Is this the way to Amarillo', then side-stepped the Mercedes and went into his house.

Unfortunately, Russia followed him.

"Oh dear… cup of tea?"

"With vodka," Russia replied.

"I don't think I have any."

Russia looked horrified, "No vodka? What kind of country is this?"

"I don't buy vodka."

"That is your problem, England. That is the root of all your problems."

"Well that's just…" England indicated the door, hoping Russia would leave this 'vodka-less' house.

But Russia plonked himself down, pulled out a vodka bottle from the depths of his long beige coat and set it on the table.

"…Wonderful," England finished, with a sinking heart.

He switched on the kettle.

Russia poured himself a vodka into the 'I heart Blackpool' mug, "You know England, if you drank vodka, all these problems would just disappear."

"Really? I very much doubt that vodka would solve the problem of France."

Russia was pulling a scrap of paper out of his paper. "You will no longer be able to live with France soon."

"I'm not living with France! I mean I am but I'm not…" England protested as he watched Russia disgorge from his pockets various items onto his kitchen table:

A large unripe cheese.

A head from an Action Man (England suspected it was America's and that Alfred would be searching for it).

A comb with all the teeth missing.

A grenade that Russia assured England was 'safe' as he got it from Romano.

A well-thumbed Doestovsky novel.

And lastly, knitting needles with what appeared to be dried blood on them.

England flinched at the last item.

"Do you have a pen, England?"

"Of course, I was just about to finish the Times crossword before you came."

"Funny, it looked to me as if you were throwing desks onto Germany's car before I came."

"Desk. One desk!" England spluttered as if it mattered that it was in the singular. "And we didn't plan it."

"No of course not. If you had, you would have thrown this table onto it instead. I would have." Russia spoke with the authority of someone who regularly threw furniture out of windows onto luxury German vehicles.

"We didn't…" England paused and then realised what Russia had said, "Wait… what's wrong with this table?"

"I wouldn't use this as a barricade against a German invasion," Russia told him.

"Neither would I."

"Right… Business," Russia said. "You need to sign this, England, while I use your bathroom. Where is it?"

"Upstairs."

"Is it? I like English homes. They are so warm," Russia was saying as he stomped upstairs. Pausing at the broken window, "But you don't need air con here."

"It's where the desk fell out," England called up.

"I know that," Russia muttered. "I am being funny. I can be funny. It's not just Polska and the others who can tell jokes."

England was looking at the piece of paper with growing horror. It appeared to be some kind of contract. He recognised his name and possibly Belarus' name - Natalia Arlovskaya. He blushed when he realised he didn't know her full name was that. If he had, he wouldn't be able to pronounce it anyway. Beyond that, he had no idea. It was written in Russian. Or Belorussian. Or both.

England took out his phone and after a lot of 'fiddling around', managed to bring up his contact list.

Who could help him and hopefully not laugh at him? He discounted most of the Nations. Who could translate Russian but was sensible? That eliminated most of them. That left only two possible Nations.

He hit the first one on the alphabetized list. "Hello? Estonia?"

"Yes? Mr Austria?"

"I'm not Mr Austria!"

"But you're speaking from his phone."

"Listen, I don't have time for this. I need your help."

"Oh? Who is this?"

"England… and I really need your help."

A drop of water fell on England's head. Thinking it was sweat, he wiped it away.

"It will cost you," Estonia replied.

"Really? Oh I just need you to translate some Russian…"

Silence. Another drop of water fell on England's head. He ignored it.

"£50 an hour."

"You're joking."

"Go to Poland then, bye."

England considered ringing Lithuania instead but didn't really have the time to circumvent Poland if Lithuania was with him. "No… wait…"

"Go on."

"If you can translate this…" here England wiped another splodge of water from his head and squinted, reading out haltingly and painfully the Russian in front of him.

"What does it mean?" England said finally.

"Contract of marriage between Natalya Arlovskaya and Arthur Kirkland," Russia said, appearing beside him.

"Aaargh!" England screamed.

"Is the boss there?" a tremulous voice asked over the phone.

England nodded and then said, "Yes."

The line went dead.

Russia grinned at England. "Were you talking to one of my little Baltics?"

England nodded. Russia was leaning over him, a piece of bathroom plumbing dangerous waving around.

England looked up as yet another drop of water dripped on his head and then realised where the water was coming from.

"My bathroom! That's my bathroom pipe."

"It is now Mr Pipe."

"What?"

"I lost my other Mr Pipe," Russia explained.

"Well why don't you bloody go and find it?"

"I know where it is. It is in someone's head."

England gulped and then went very quiet.

"You need a plumber, England."

"Well I bloody do now, don't I?"

Russia nodded, "And a glazier."

England sighed and tried to dial a number but instead his phone rang.

"Hello?" he asked.

A voice began shouting at him in German.

"Listen, Germany…"

"Nyet, it is not Germany," Russia said.

"This is not Austria's phone, I've already told you," England said, ignoring Russia's advice.

The voice on the other end of the phone switched to English, "Oh so you think it's funny to talk in English do you? I'm telling you to stay away from my borders!" the phone then went dead.

"Well!" England said. "I haven't been anywhere near anybody's borders."

"Switzerland is a very angry individual," Russia said with relish.

"Do you have any idea how to block these imbeciles, Russia?" England handed his phone to Russia.

Russia crushed the phone in one hand and gave it back. "There."

England eyed the crunched phone with regret and picked up his landline instead.

"I didn't know you had children, England," Russia said as he watched England put a bucket under the drip.

"What?" England asked as he dialled.

"A little boy? Who likes Superman and strange French porn?"

"That is not my son! That's America's room!"

"My son, Siberia, is a very good boy. He would not dream of decorating his bedroom like that."

England frowned. When he'd met Siberia, he'd thought the 'boy' was a complete psychopath. "I've just told you, it's America's room."

"America is your son?"

"No!"

"You are a very angry individual, England."

England took a few deep breaths, "Hello?"

"Who are you ringing, England?" Russia asked with interest.

"My insurance company…" he whispered in answer to Russia. "Hello? Yes, I need to put in a claim for a flood and a broken window and if you could send around an emergency plumber and a glazer that would be brilliant, thank you." England paused and listened. "Why? Well, it's because…"

"… He threw an antique desk through the window and I lost my Mr Pipe and needed a replacement," Russia said down the phone.

"Shut up!" England hissed.

Russia growled.

"No, not you, I mean…" England said quickly, both into the telephone and to the Russian.

Russia took the phone off him, "Privet? Da… da… da…" he then hung up.

"What did they say?"

Russia shrugged, "I do not know, England. But it was something to do with insurance fraud."

"Damn."

"I can fix the bathroom for you. I took a plumbing course," Russia told him.

"Stopcock!" England said suddenly.

Russia loomed over him, "Wut?" he growled.

"I mean er… we need to find the stopcock to turn off the water."

But Russia had already bounded up the stairs. "I took a plumbing course in my spare century!"

"Damned Russkie," England said, pulling out all the contents from under his sink, trying to locate the elusive tap.

A warning stain was creeping across the ceiling.

There was banging of metal on metal from the bathroom above. Another gush of water came down, along with the ceiling. England was half-drowned and his cup of tea was ruined.

"Bloody hell…" England hurriedly turned off the water and looked up to see Russia looking back down at him through the hole in the ceiling/floor.

Russia gave him the thumbs-up. England did not return the gesture.

"See! I did it!" Russia said.

"Hmmm…"

Russia stomped back downstairs, "You can still sign this, England," he said, handing him the sodden marriage contract.

"This is not legal," England said, dripping wet.

"You are right. I did not use copper piping and I don't think that duct tape will hold."

"No I mean this contract."

"Yes it is."

"I need to ring my lawyer."

"You have a lawyer?"

England thought about this. He actually did not. He took out his phone, which bizarrely could still work even though it was a scrunched up mess and had a broken screen.

"Hello Estonia?" England ventured. Estonia was the only Nation he knew who was a trained lawyer and fairly sensible. Spain was also a trained lawyer (he'd qualified in his 'spare century') but he was neither sensible nor likely to help England.

"Yes?"

Russia snatched the phone from him, "Estonia! I miss you and your brothers! I have been having problems with my washing machine."

"Sir, if you put a red sock in with your whites then everything will turn pink, we've told you." Estonia sounded desperate.

"No! It was not a red sock. Mr Pipe needed a wash."

England could hear Estonia banging his head on his desk.

"I need your help with this marriage contract, Estonia," England began.

"No, he doesn't," Russia added into the phone.

"Is this to do with your date with Miss Liechtenstein? Mr Switzerland ordered you to marry her?" Estonia asked.

"No," England said.

"Not Miss Hungary?"

"No."

"Oh my God! How many women have you dated, Mr England?" Estonia asked.

"He is a lady's man, Estonia. But when he marries my sestra he will behave himself or he will be going in my washing machine with Mr Pipe," Russia interrupted.

"Your sestra? Miss Ukraine?" Estonia sounded worried.

"Nyet! Belarus of course!"

"Phew!" Estonia sounded relieved.

"Wut?"

"Oh dear, I'm going into a tunnel," Estonia said and the phone went dead.

"You know, there are a lot of tunnels in Estonia," Russia told England.

England had no answer to this.

"Right, you can sign this and I will leave," Russia said.

England pulled out a yellow pages and began thumbing through looking for 'plumber' and 'glazer'. "I'm not marrying your sister," he said resolutely.

Russia hummed, "I can make things very bad for you, Mr England…"

"You mean like destroying my bathroom?"

"I fixed it!"

"I found the stopcock."

"Yes, you would need a stopcock if you have France living with you!"

"I've told you, he's not living with me!"

The phone rang, Russia snatched it up, "Privet, this is England and France's house!" he answered. He sounded delighted.

He then hung up. "That was France. He says not to wait up."

"He's not bloody living with me!" England yelled and then very quickly went quiet as Russia stuck the piece of bathroom plumbing, his bathroom plumbing, under his nose.

"Wut?" Russia whispered.

"I mean er… let's take a look at that marriage contract…"

And so after formally announcing that they were now 'brothers-in-law' and 'family', Russia had cleared England out of all the alcohol in his house, watched 'Coronation Street' (which he thought was a documentary), broken America's Darth Vader mask and finally passed out on England's lap.

* * *

And so the next morning found England too tired, distraught, afraid and traumatised to move.

England's salvation came from an unexpected source.

"Bonjour mon amies! Where iz ze gorgeous Allemagne? Has he left already? I really wanted to see him. He is so very big and strong!" France yelled as he came in. His face was covered in lipstick, he was trailing several balloons and streamers and his trousers were partially undone. "You missed a wonderful party, Angleterre and…" here France halted as England put a finger to his lips and pointed at the sleeping Russian.

"Ah! Eet eez so wonderful! Gorgeous! I must take a picture!" France all but gasped and pulled out a mobile phone (from where, England did not want to know).

At this, Russia woke up. Saw France standing over him looking devilishly perverted, jumped up and, with remarkable speed for someone so big, ran out of the door. He almost left a large cartoon-ish Russia outline as he did so.

"Ah… so I missed a party here as well…" France said.

England didn't know whether to hit him or hug him.


	13. House of Pain

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, , ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 13 - House of Pain**

England did not hug France, he didn't hit him either. He consoled himself by just glaring at him.

"Where did Ivan go?" France asked, a balloon popped over his head as if in commiseration.

"Home. I hope." England replied. "What in God's name have you been doing?" When he saw the devilish grin on France's face he said quickly, "Never mind that, don't tell me. Just help me get a plumber and a glazer."

"Why a plumber, mon ami?"

"Because Russia that's why."

"Eet eez terrible!" France exclaimed when he saw the hole in the bathroom floor and the wrecked pipes around the bath.

"Oui, it is," England said, not realising in his consternation he was talking French.

"You should not let such hooligans into our home."

"Yes well…Wait what? Our home? This is not 'our' home!"

France shrugged in a very 'Gallic' way, "You zay zis now," he said mysteriously and picked up the phone, "Allo? Oui? Zis is Arthur Kirkland's house. Well it is not his house because zat would be very weird non?"

England shook his head, "Yeah cos that's not the most weird thing happening right now," he muttered. He would have hung around to listen but France was looking particularly pervy and starting to flirt with the poor unfortunate person on the other end of the phone. England hoped it was a handyman/builder and not some sex line. "Right… I'm off to get changed into… something," he said, wondering what on earth he was going to wear as he had no clothes.

"What happened to your phone!" France exclaimed, one hand over the speaker and pointing at the crushed iphone.

"Russia did that!" England explained and then wondered why he was explaining himself to France of all bloody people.

"And I suppose you will say he did zat?" France pointed at the hole in the ceiling.

"Yes he did!"

"And zat?" France pointed at the broken window.

"No, that was bloody you and you bloody know it!"

"Pointing fingers helps no-one, mon ami," France said and turned his attention back to the phone. "Oui oui…"

The doorbell rang and England answered it.

He hoped it was, against all odds, a plumber or a glazer (the house was freezing).

It was neither.

It was Belarus. England opened the door to find a knife stuck in it.

She swept in like a blue tornado. If tornado wore ribbons.

"Ah Miss Belarus, I'm glad it's you," England lied.

"Where is he?" Belarus asked running from room to room, ribbons trailing, knives flashing.

"This marriage thingy…"

"Where is he?" she demanded again as she skidded past a startled France and up the stairs.

England could hear wardrobes opening and closing. How Russia could possibly cram his six-foot frame into America's Disney-stickered wardrobe was beyond England's comprehension.

"He's not here!" England called up.

Belarus came downstairs slowly. "You have a broken window, broken pipes and there is a desk on the German car outside…"

"Yes but…"

"Then he was here." Her eyes shone.

"Yes, he was but…"

"Tell me!"

"He sat here and…" England motioned to the sofa.

But Belarus had already planked full-length on the sofa with a blissful look on her face.

He thought about telling 'his wife' on the subject of the fact she was now 'his wife' that he wanted a divorce but his courage failed.

"Well?" he said as France came off the phone.

"I am well, yes, thank you for asking. I do have a little mal de tête, possibly a hangover but…"

"No! I mean with regards a plumber and glazer, you goon!"

"Oh that!"

"Yes that."

"Yes it is sorted. Do not worry your little Anglo-Saxon brain," France did a mock exclamation of surprise when he saw Belarus prone on the sofa. She was in some kind of swoon.

"Why is she here?" France whispered.

"Looking for Russia."

"Not for you?"

"Why would she be looking for me?" England said nervously.

They were now stood in the kitchen, whispering.

"Now zat you are married of course."

"How do you know about that?"

France smirked, "Estonia told Lithuania who told Poland who told Hungary who told me."

"Damn bloody gossips."

"Well, I have sorted out your life now, mon cher. I will go in ze bath!" France said and skipped upstairs.

"You mean now you've ruined my life! And you can't have a bath. There is no bath!" England called up to him.

"Ah! England is so uncultured. Not like Le France!" France came downstairs. "But never mind I have called for a very excellent plumber and glazer who will fix everyzing. You know, you should go out."

"In what?"

"What?"

England pointed to his attire which was still damp. "You've given away all my clothes. What am I supposed to wear?"

France snapped his fingers and went back upstairs. "I have some zings you can borrow, mon cher! Although I think you are on ze bigger size zan me."

"Are you saying I'm fat?"

France didn't answer.

England turned to the still prone Belorussian. "Miss Belarus do you want me to escort you home?" he then thought about what he'd said and that he would possibly be going all the way to Minsk and so said, "Or to your Embassy?"

Belarus looked up, "I want to stay here and bask in the glory."

"The glory of my sofa?"

"My brother's presence," Belarus said scornfully.

"He's not here," England said and added under his breath, "I bloody wish I wasn't."

"He has left his essence."

"He's left a bloody mess."

Belarus turned her face away from him and resumed her planking position.

"How are we going to get rid of her?" England whispered to France.

France was stood in America's bedroom and didn't answer straightaway. He held up a series of clothes against England and shaking his head. All of them were clearly designed to elicit outrage in the Englishman.

"I'm not wearing that!" England said at a particularly frilly and flouncy pink shirt.

"Well I do not know what you are going to wear tonight."

"Tonight? I don't need anything to wear tonight…" England began to say and then amended when he saw France's filthy smile. "… I mean I do but I don't need anything fancy. You don't need to dress up for Downton Abbey." England considered this, "Although perhaps I should…"

France shook his head, "You have a date tonight, mon ami, as per our contract."

England stared at him, "No way!"

France nodded and waved a pair of virulent purple flares in his face, "Oui, mon cher."

"Don't you wave your pants at me! I'm not going on a bloody date!"

France frowned, "You really do not want to stand up the person I have for you."

"Person? Who is it?" England asked, his eyes narrowing.

"You will have a nice time. You should go out."

"Why are you in such a rush to get rid of me?"

"Get rid? Get rid?" France looked appalled. "How can you say such a zing?"

England frowned, "Are you planning something?"

"Moi?" France put a hand to his heart and looked appalled. But before he could protest the doorbell rang.

France threw some clothes at England and hurried downstairs. "I will go! Everyzing will be alright, you just see!" he called.

England sighed and went into his own room with a pile of clothes.

* * *

When England went downstairs, unfortunately wearing France's trousers (one of his worse nightmares) and a t-shirt with something written on it in French. (England assumed it was a band-name, he was wrong.)

France made him a cup of tea and told him that the plumber was 'fixing things'.

England looked at him, "Really?" he said. He felt very suspicious. But at least the water was back on. There was also a lot of banging and crashing. "I'm amazed you got someone so quickly."

"Yes well…"

"Shut up down there, I'm trying to work!" came a horribly familiar voice.

"Oh no…"

"It's not what you zink, mon cher."

"It's exactly what I think…" England got up from his chair (with difficulty as the pants were way too tight) and headed upstairs.

It was Prussia. In a rather incongruous boiler suit and wearing an over-large tool belt. He was clearly overcompensating for something, England thought.

"Come, mon cher, take me out driving," France said, appearing at his side and trying to pull him away.

"I see you had a problem with a large Russian," Prussia said, waving a large spanner around and grinning.

"I had no idea you were a plumber," England said.

Prussia looked him up and down, "Listen, Grandma, who do yer think fixed the plumbing at fat Russkie's house all those years when I lived there?"

"Toris?" England hazarded a guess.

Prussia ignored him.

"My darling Ivan is not fat. It is all manly muscle!" Belarus shouted from downstairs.

Prussia stuck his head down the hole in the floor and yelled, "He's a fathead!" and then grinned at England.

"Why did you get him?" England asked, turning to France.

"He owes me a favour," France told him. "And he needs the money…"

"We're actually paying him?!"

"Ja!" Prussia grinned. "I sorted out your water problems, didn't I?"

England was dragged downstairs by France.

"Also I promised Allemagne I would keep him out of the way…"

"What's it got to do with bloody Germany?"

"Here have some croissant, mon cher…" France stuffed a croissant in England's mouth.

"Listen ladies! Can you keep it down? A man's trying to work!" Prussia yelled through the hole in the ceiling.

"I bloody can't stand him," England mumbled with a full mouth to France.

"Let's go driving, mon cher."

"Stop bloody calling me that!"

"Gay!" Prussia yelled and recommenced banging.

"What bloody car are we supposed to drive in?" England asked.

France's eyes shone.

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me…" England had feared France had meant his precious Bentley. And seeing as the Mini still had a wheel clamp attached to it and was thus out of action, there was only one other car that was available…

Unfortunately it had a desk embedded in its roof.

France smiled at Germany's Mercedes and ran his hand along the body lovingly. "She eez gorgeous."

England felt queasy.

"Why are you insisting on carrying on with these bloody driving lessons?" England asked as they each took hold of the desk.

"I need my licence. Now ferme la bouche and take hold of your side of ze bureau, mon cher."

England grunted, "They are never going to let you drive that Ferrari."

"Yes but I can buy it myself," France replied. "Now lift."

"You lift as well!" England said, trying to lift and finding he couldn't. "Besides you don't have any money."

"I have got a job!"

This was the most amazing news England had heard since the 17th century when he'd tasted his first cup of tea. He was so amazed that he dropped the desk.

"My foot! My foot!" France cried.

"Stop screaming you stupid Frenchman!" England shouted. "Bloody drama queen…" he muttered.

France pulled off his fancy velvet high heeled boots (what kind of man wears high heels anyway? England thought) and then his sock (which had a huge hole in it).

"Oh," England said. "Did your foot always look like that?"

"Oh mon cher!" France sobbed.

It didn't look good, whichever way you looked at it. There was a huge bump on the top and at least one of the toes was at a very weird angle.

England sighed, "Well this is an inconvenience," he said. "I'll go ring for a taxi."

"But you can take me in your car!"

"You're not getting in my Bessie!" England told him (Bessie was the Bentley's name).

France sat down on the driveway and ignored the gawping of the neighbours. "I will never dance the ballet again…" he cried.

***To Be Continued***


	14. Somebody get me a doctor

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, , ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 14 Somebody Get Me a Doctor**

"I like nurses," France said. He sounded high. He probably was. England had given him a cocktail of painkillers and a swig of whisky as they'd waited for a taxi to the hospital.

"Don't touch anyone, I'm warning you," England told him.

"Do you zink I can have some more drugs?"

"I think you've had quite enough," England said. "Besides, anyone wearing those pants has to be high." He added, trying not to look at Francis' tighter than tight jeans.

France pursed his lips.

They were sat in the local A&E awaiting a doctor to tell them what England already knew - that France had a broken toe (or toes).

A cab had driven them. Unfortunately, that cab had been driven by Denmark.

"Yo dude! You're gonna be laid up for a bit then. Is Dude England gonna nurse you?" Denmark loped up to them.

"Why are you the only bloody cab driver in the whole of bloody London?" England asked.

"Dunno," Den shrugged and handed them both polystyrene cups.

France didn't even attempt to drink from his but promptly emptied it into a nearby plant pot.

England looked suspiciously at his, "What is this?"

"Tea… I think. It might not be though. It's not beer." Denmark belched and crushed a beer can he had been holding and tossed it into the nearby plant pot.

"You can't drink in here!" a nurse told Denmark.

"Well, now I'm not!" Denmark replied, grinning at her. His hair looked crazier than ever as if he'd stuck his finger in a plug socket. He probably had, England thought.

"Excuse me, is it possible for my friend to be seen?" England asked, standing up.

But Denmark elbowed him out of the way and said to the nurse, "Hey you're a cutie! I've always liked nurses!" He was making an attempt to appear suave. But his t-shirt which had 'lost property' on the front and 'return to the King of Northern Europe' on the back, said otherwise.

The nurse tried to ignore them and walk on.

But England got her attention, "Er Miss? I've always had the utmost respect for nurses and I wondered if it were possible for my idiot friend to be seen?"

"She's not interested in you and Francis. She wants a real man. Not somebody who thinks Antiques Roadshow and a mug of Horlicks is a party," Denmark told England.

The nurse had already walked away.

"Yer know, I'm too sexy. I bet she's walked off to swoon or powder her hair or something," the dozy Dane told them and then swapped his attentions to the receptionist.

"So honey? You like Denmark?" he asked the woman behind the reception desk. She closed the shutter and pressed the 'security' button.

"It hurts so much…" Francis muttered.

"What? That the nurse didn't even look at you?"

"No, mon cher."

"Your jeans? Yes, they do look rather tight." England preferred not to think about France's tight jeans.

"Mon foot. I will never dance again." France leaned against England and promptly fell asleep/passed out due to the whisky.

"Well that's a relief for mankind, in my opinion," England said.

England considered buggering off to find someone but was stopped by a security guard holding Denmark by the Nation's ear. "This man says he knows you," the security guard said to England.

England looked the man straight in the eye and said, "I've never seen him before in my life."

"Matthias…" Francis mumbled next to him.

"Shush," England said as Denmark was dragged out.

"Arthur!" Denmark yelled in desperation as he landed on his arse in the entrance.

England nodded with satisfaction and went to the vending machine to get a cup of tea instead of the weird muck Denmark had bought him.

"Cup o' soup…" England muttered to himself as he perused the vending machine options. "Coffee with milk, coffee black, tea black, tea with milk…" He ignored the big Dane who was jumping up and down on the pressure pad outside the entrance, causing the automatic doors to open and close.

Finally, England wandered up to him with a fresh 'cup' of tea. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Nah," Denmark shook his head. "Thanks for the payment. Not many customers pay me. It might be cos I get lost. It's hard being a taxi driver…"

England sighed, "You're a very bad driver, Denmark," he said finally.

"You need to check on your boyfriend," Denmark said pointing at France being led away by a nurse.

"We are not a couple!" England yelled and wondered how many times he was going to have to say this. He was about to say something else when he noticed France was missing. "Where'd he go?" he asked.

"Dunno," Denmark shrugged and his phone rang - the opening bars of 'Is this the way to Amarillo?' were heard (England's left eye twitched). "Just gotta take this… woah… Gil my main man!" he punched England's arm with delight. "It's Gil!"

"Gil?"

"Pru."

"Pru?"

"Gotta go, dude. He's having a problem with a pretty girl!" with that Denmark loped off like a large dog.

England shuddered, not realising the implication of what Denmark had told him.

England, however, had a more urgent problem. He could hear Francis talking:

"My full name is Francis Louis de Chevalier Bonaparte Bonnefoy. My date of birth is…"

England skidded into a cubicle. The curtain, bizarrely adorned with cartoon characters, entangled his head. He was faced with a child with a saucepan stuck on his head. He did a double-take just in case it wasn't actually one of his fellow Nations (it had happened before) "Sorry, so sorry, sorry. I do apologise," he said and hurried out.

He managed to find the correct cubicle after two more attempts. The heavily pregnant woman who had yelled at him had been most unreasonable, he'd thought.

"Twenty-second of September…" France was telling a nurse with a clipboard.

"Really?" England panted as he skidded in.

"Oui! Ze date ze Republic was established," France said proudly.

"You're a history buff?" the nurse asked, scribbling on her clipboard. She looked at England, "Shall I put you as next of kin?"

"Good God, no!"

The nurse looked at him and then back at France, "Full date of birth?"

"Twenty-second of September…" France began again and then stopped and looked at England for help.

"1966," England said suddenly. (He doubted telling the nurse France was over a thousand years old would go down well.)

"I do not look so old!" France exclaimed in horror.

"That's only a year older than me," the nurse said and glared at him.

"Ah, but you wear it so well," France purred.

England shook his head.

"Why are you wearing a curtain, mon cher?" France asked England.

"How did this happen and when did the pain start?" the nurse asked.

"Around 1059. The pain began straight after I met him and has never let up," England said, trying to pull the cartoonish curtain from around his head.

"You two sound like me and my husband," the nurse said.

"We're not a couple!"

France nodded.

"So what did you do?" the nurse asked as she looked at France's foot.

"Well, I invaded Calais and there was the Hundred Years' War…" England began.

The nurse ignored him but made a note on the clipboard that said 'Psych ward?'

"He dropped a desk on my foot," France said.

"No, that's not true. We were lifting a desk off a car," England tried to explain.

"You were lifting a desk off a car?" the nurse repeated and looked confused. "Why?"

"A German car," France told her with satisfaction as if this explained everything.

"Really?"

"Yes, it fell out of a window," England explained doggedly.

"It was a Louis XIV," France said.

"This Louis, was he there?" the nurse asked.

"He is a French King," France said. "He was the Sun King!"

"Sunking?"

"Oui, it fell onto a friend's car,"

"Well, I think the term friend is pushing it a bit, Francis," England laughed.

The nurse looked at him and wrote 'sociopath' on her clipboard.

"He's not our friend," England confided to her.

"Non, he invaded me!" France cried.

The nurse looked horrified.

"He doesn't like us. Even before we dropped a desk on his Mercedes," England explained.

"And then Ivan turned up," France said, smiling.

"Ivan? Is he a friend of yours?" the nurse obviously didn't need this information but seemed curious about the whole weirdness.

"God no!" England blurted out.

"Shush! He might hear you!"

"In here?" England looked around.

The nurse was now examining France's foot and noting with amusement that he was wearing pink nail polish. "He sounds scary," she muttered.

"He is scary. A big scary Russian who shouts kolkolkol," England said, warming up to the subject.

The nurse looked up, "Did you say kol kol kol?"

"Yes."

The nurse shook her head, "Well it's probably nothing but we had a man in last week with a piece of bathroom plumbing stuck in his head and all he could shout was kolkolkol."

France and England exchanged glances and shuddered.

"Perhaps it was your friend?" she said as she bustled out to order an x-ray.

"I don't think so," England whispered, going pale. "I think it was his victim…"

And then England received a message on his beaten up phone.

"Ah see! I told you it would be good that you can now get picture messages!" France said.

It wasn't good in England's eyes. Not when he saw a picture of Denmark and Prussia tied up back to back, their mouths gagged and a caption over it that said 'Bring me Vanya or they die!'.

"Miss Belarus is getting really good at technology isn't she? I wonder what phone she has?" France said, unhelpfully.

England shook his head but he had other problems, his phone buzzed again and he realised he'd missed fourteen text messages. All were from China.

All were getting more and more threatening. He looked at France questioningly.

France shrugged and then, as if on satellite link, jumped and said, "Ah oui! Your date! With Yao!"

England groaned.


	15. Calling Dr Love

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, , ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 15 - Calling Dr Love**

England resisted the urge to make pirate jokes as he helped France hop his way out of the hospital.

France was on crutches, his right foot in a pot and if he hadn't been drugged up he would have been upset.

"Har har! Come on me hearties!" England yelled, laughing. He gave up with the 'no pirates' joke. "All you need is a parrot on your shoulder, Francis!" he told France.

France shook his head, "I know you zink zis is funny. You and your weird friend, Captain Hook, who I zink is your perverted side…" France forgot what he was going to say.

"I'll ring for a taxi," England laughed. This was brilliant. France with a broken foot. That meant he should be out of action for ages. "Six to eight weeks to heal!" England repeated again. (He'd repeated this blissfully several times.) "This is going to slow you down, mon ami!" England said to France with much relish.

France shrugged.

England rang a cab, who told them it would be half an hour. Then, with a sigh, he rang Denmark's Uber number, only to get no answer. Then he remembered that Denmark was probably still tied up with Prussia. (A fact that did not really bother him at all. If Belarus did kill them then it would mean a lot of paperwork, but that was the bane of his life anyway.)

"Bus?" England asked.

France had sat on the pavement outside the hospital entrance. A woman tutted and stepped past them. Another looked at them piteously and dropped a few pence in France's lap.

"I cannot buy wine wiz zis!" France shouted.

"Bus?" England repeated.

"Bush? What do you mean?"

"Public transport."

"Pubic transport? What a strange country zis is!" France said. He was clearly high as a kite, England thought.

"Who can I ring? Who would rescue us?" He cast around in the contacts on his crushed phone. "Hello, Toris? You're a nice chap…"

"He is not in zis strange country, mon cher," France burbled next to him.

"Never mind… no it's okay Toris, I don't need you to interpret anything for me… no, I'm not bloody married! How did you know about that? Oh… Estonia told Latvia who told Poland who told you." England shook his head.

"You are a legend, mon ami," France said. He had pulled out a bottle of wine and a glass (from heaven knows where) and was pouring himself a glass. He then lit a cigarette and, reclining on the pavement with his crutches, looked like redolent drunk. Which he was.

"Never mind, Toris… I just needed a lift from someone who's sensible and won't throw us out of their car." England said and then listened, "Yes indeed! Who would throw us out of their car?!" England agreed.

France waved a glass of wine at England, spilling half of it. "Allemagne, Pologne, Prusse, l'Espagne, Hongrie…" France listed all the Nations who would most likely throw them both out of a car.

England only understood 'l'Espagne' and turned to France, "Spain would not throw me out!"

"Mon cher, he hates you. You keep stopping him from getting together with Belgique!"

England hung up. "You look like a vagrant," he told France. "Besides, I'm not sure you should be drinking after taking those painkillers."

France shrugged, "Why don't you use magic to get us home?" he then giggled and fell over - even though he was actually sitting down.

England smacked his forehead (his own), "Why didn't I think of that! Probably because magic won't get us out of this, you French twerp! What am I supposed to do? Summon up a broomstick?"

"Shummon a demon!" France giggled. He then said something else in French - probably something perverted, England thought.

Nevertheless, England snapped his fingers, "I know what to do! Magic!" he said. "And by doing this, I save Prussia and Denmark from Belarus' evil plan! I'm a genius!"

* * *

At England's house…

"I told you to bring help!" Prussia was telling Denmark.

"I did!"

"You brought you. That's not help."

"You didn't say bring someone else!"

"Bringing help means bring someone else!" Prussia argued back.

Denmark frowned. He would have scratched his head if he wasn't tied up.

They were sat on the floor in England's kitchen, tied up back to back. A pink floor mop France had bought was laid next to them, almost mockingly. Belarus had used it to beat Prussia around the head.

It was all a blur to Prussia. One minute he was insulting Belarus, which was akin to poking a bear, an angry bear that is, with a pointy stick. The next minute he had been running for his life. Denmark had not helped. In fact, Denmark had been the equivalent of pouring petrol on a fire. Sauntering in with that crazy grin and enormous hair did not help at all. They only served to enrage Belarus.

Although Prussia had lived in Russia's house for many years alongside the Baltic Trio who he always assumed were 'little poncy jerks', he never imagined that Belarus was so strong.

Somehow, the small Belarussian had overwhelmed and tied up the most Awesome Nation and a Viking warrior. Prussia was confounded. He said as much to Denmark.

"She's hard she is. Almost as hard as my daughter, Greenland. Remember her, Pru?" Denmark answered. He didn't admit that he didn't understand what confound meant.

Prussia nodded. He was hardly likely to forget. The first time he'd met his friend's daughter, he'd bent down to pat her on the head (she'd been around 6 years old at the time) and she'd threatened to bury an axe in his head. "Vikings…" Prussia mumbled.

"I know right? I thought you looked really funny when she used that lasso. I wonder where she learnt that from?" Denmark said cheerily. He was always cheery. It was annoying.

"Alabama Gay Rodeo," Belarus answered him.

"I blame Alfred," Prussia said.

Belarus may have thought that she had things under control. She didn't. One of them began singing:

"When the day is dawning…"

And the other joined in:

"On a Texas Sunday morning…" the other sang.

"No!" Belarus yelled.

"How I long to be there…"

"With Marie who's waiting for me there…" the other one sang gleefully.

"I have to go!" Belarus said quickly. "I have been summoned!" She ran out of the door before the song got into her head and she was cursed forever.

* * *

Back at the hospital...

"The regretful tears of a thousand year Nation…" England muttered to himself. Funnily enough a certain song was ringing around his head. "Bloody earworm…" he added to himself.

"Qui?"

"What?"

"What?"

"I'm trying to remember how to summon Belarus."

"Why would you want to do that? Are you mad, mon cher?"

"Enough of the mon cher business!"

"But why?"

"Because I'm sick of it, okay?"

"No, I know zis. Why would you shummon Belarush?" France slurred.

"You're drunk!" England observed.

"Oui, hic."

"Who else would pick us up?"

"Erm…"

"Precisely." England thought hard. "The regretful tears of a thousand year old Nation…" he looked at France who was slumped. "A human skull… that's going to be a tad difficult… A full moon…" England looked up. It was mid-afternoon. The moon was not out. But he was British and he would improvise like the time he'd fooled the Luftwaffe in the War with cardboard planes.

He ran back into the hospital and winced as he bought another beverage of unknown substance from the vending machine which subsequently gurgled threateningly at him. He cast around for the big security guard but he was nowhere to be seen. Presumably ejecting Denmark had been the pinnacle of the man's career.

He hurried back outside, looking at the beverage in suspicion and poured it into France's glass of wine.

"There, France, I found some nice Beaujolais for you."

France smiled glassily at him and then through the windows of the ward nearby. A nurse quickly appeared and closed the window blinds, indicating that France was a deviant peeping tom. Which he was.

"Zis ish not Beaujolaish! Tea! Why would you do zish? Hic!" France slurred and spluttered as he took he sip. He emptied the cup into nearby shrubbery.

"Yes well…" England waited for the tears.

France looked at him through golden lashes. "You are so cruel!"

"I need tears… bwahahaha!" England said rubbing his hands and laughing like a mad scientist. He thought about adding a dash of magic but he was afraid that as this 'spell' came from Belarus he could summon Russia by mistake.

"You want me to cry? To pour out my soul? My beautiful French soul?"

"Yes."

"My beautiful soul that Napoleon himself said was too gorgeous to invade Russia…"

"Yes.. Wait what? You didn't go with the Grand Armée because you were a bloody coward!"

"Eet eez not true! Someone had to stay behind and do ze cooking! You are rude and cruel and a barbarian! When I first met you, you were living in a mud hut with your King who burnt ze cakes!"

"King Alfred was a bloody good man and you take that back!" England exploded and then remembered what he was trying to do. He forgot that actually France could be quite a tough nut to crack. Italy of course would cry at the drop of a hat - the sight of a kitten or someone telling him his pasta was rubbish was enough. France was made of sterner stuff. Or drunk. Probably the latter.

England thought hard. "Your clothes are awful. You'll never be able to dance again and you'll never pass your driving test."

"My clothes are ze height of fashion. I am a fashion icon. You look like you slept in a skip! And ze test? I will pass, even if it takes centuries."

England felt like crying now.

"You'll never get that Porsche."

"It was a Ferrari."

"You'll never get Italy back. He'll never go to live with you. None of the younger Nations look up to you. I don't know anyone who calls you Big Brother France!"

France's eyes filled with tears. "You are so cruel!"

England went in for the kill, "And your hair is greasy!"

Big French tears rolled down Francis' cheeks.

England stepped forward quickly with a monogrammed lace handkerchief, "Here!"

"Ah Arthur! You are cruel wiz zat lovely mouth of yours but you still love me!" France said in between sobs.

The self-proclaimed great Nation of Love sobbed into the lacy handkerchief, loudly blew his nose (so loud that a flock of pigeons took off) and handed the handkerchief back to England.

England held it between thumb and forefinger, vowing to boil wash it later and then wrung out the tears into the polystyrene cup. One had to make do, he couldn't very well kill a human just for a skull, besides the polystyrene cup was creepy enough. Full moon though? England looked up at the sun blazing down on them.

He turned to a woman in a wheelchair who had just emerged from the hospital, obviously having been discharged from some awful operation. She was about to go through another awful experience.

"Excuse me, do you know what phase the moon is in?" England asked her. "I'm trying to summon a friend, well not a friend… a person of dubious origins. She is the only person who will pick us up. I don't suppose though, we could share your taxi?" he added the last bit in hope.

"Get away from me!" the woman cried.

"I say! How rude! A chap can ask," England said.

But the woman had said this to France who was trying to pitch her out of the chair.

"I am more wounded than you!" France said.

"France, you're not wounded. This is not Agincourt!"

"It eez Azincourt! You uncouth Englishman!" France tried to hit England with his crutch but then promptly fell over.

A large black car pulled up. It looked like a hearse. England peered at it with a sense of horror.

The driver's window wound down and a delicate white hand, perfectly manicured, pointed at them and then crooked a finger indicating that they were to get in.

"Us?" England asked.

"I have a bad feeling about this, mon ami…" France said next to him.

"Yes, my perverted little friend, I quite agree."

The hand pointed at them rather more emphatically and then at the back door.

It looked angry. If a disembodied hand could look angry.

"I'm sorry," England called. "But we don't get into stranger's cars," he said as if they were twelve years old.

A familiar head stuck out, there were dark sunglasses covering the familiar icy blue eyes, but there was no mistaking the platinum blond hair, "Get in the car, you pair of idiots!"

"Oh! Miss Belarus! My summoning worked."

"Why didn't you just text her?" France whispered, staggering to the car, tripping over a crutch and hanging onto England's arm.

"She didn't give me her phone number…"

Belarus glared at them. "You two look like you're married," she hissed.

"We're not a couple and why are you incognito? And why are you driving a hearse? And why are there bulletholes?" England added the last question when he saw the upholstery and the holes scattered on the car's trunk/boot.

Belarus looked at him in the rear view mirror, "Let's just say I got into an altercation with some bad people," she said mysteriously.

"What people?" France slurred.

England nudged him and shook his head. He really preferred not to know.

Belarus did not answer but drove off.

* * *

"It is nice to be home!" France said as he hobbled in.

"This is not your bloody home!" England shouted as the French Nation plonked himself down on the sofa, and lit a cigarette. Arthur was about to tell France to put that bloody cigarette out but did a double-take. Denmark and Prussia were still tied up.

"Oh God! Not you two!" he said.

"Dude! We're stuck!" Denmark appealed.

"We can't reach our beers," Prussia said.

"Did you fix my bathroom?" England asked.

"All I need to do is finish the tiling," Prussia told him.

"No!" Belarus interrupted.

"Yeah I do!" Prussia protested.

"You will not let them go, Arthur. You will bring me Ivan first like you said," she told England.

"I didn't say anything," England said. He then corrected himself quickly when a knife appeared under his throat, "Well if you put it like that!"

"Better listen to the missus, dude," Denmark said, shaking his head.

"She's not…" England began but stopped when he saw Belarus' face.

"Ha! Under the thumb!" Prussia looked happy at this.

"Your other wife will be jealous!" Denmark said.

"My other wife?" England frowned.

"Francy-pants!" Denmark yelled and tried to high-five Prussia but forgot his hands were tied behind his back and almost fell over.

"We're not bloody married!" England yelled and stomped off. Even Belarus stepped out of his way.

"If you bring my brother to me then he can finish your tiling and we can all go home…" Belarus said and made it all sound very sinister.

England wasn't sure if the idea of Prussia tiling wasn't a threat in itself. But the thought of getting rid of them all did really appeal to him.

"Me? How can I…?"

"Summon him! You are great… well not great… you are a good… well perhaps not good…" Belarus thought about it for a long time, "You are a wizard of great renown!"

"Great renown? I am?" England puffed out his chest.

"Da! There are a lot of people who talk about you."

"I bet they do!" Prussia interrupted with a leer.

England ignored him. He quite liked the idea of people talking about his wizarding skills. He began filling the kettle to make a cup of tea. "I went to the best wizarding school you know. When I had a spare century…"

"I made beer in my spare century," Denmark burped.

"I got good at fighting and war!" Prussia said.

Belarus did not tell them what she did in her spare century, but they could guess as she twirled a knife nonchalantly.

England looked up at the window and promptly dropped the kettle he was holding when he saw Russia peering in at him, grinning toothily.

"Aaaaargh!" England screamed.

A knock at the door at the same time made him jump again. When he looked up, Russia's face was gone.

"My brother!" Belarus yelled, flinging open the door joyfully and bulldozing the Nation who was stood there. She was gone in pursuit of Russia.

"Your doorbell does not work," China said, picking himself up and dusting himself off.

England and China stood on the garden path and watched impassively as Russia (China's stalker) was chased down the road by Belarus (England's stalker).

England turned around and almost jumped out of his skin.

"What is wrong with you, Arthur? Get in the house and make tea. Not your awful English tea, I have brought my own," China said imperiously, sweeping into the house.

England shook his head. Surely he was seeing things? There, totally obliterating his driveway and, of course, Germany's Mercedes (thankfully, his own precious Bentley was in the garage) was a 20 foot long dragon.

"Oh bollocks…" England said with feeling.


	16. Waiter! There's a dragon in my rice

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, , ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 16 Waiter! There's a dragon in my rice!**

The restaurant was nice, England had to admit.

They were sat next to a window at one end of a long low room completely decorated in red swirling patterned wallpaper that gave England a strange feeling that he was sat in a giant smoothie blender. It was very disconcerting.

But not as disconcerting as the food. He'd asked for chips, and China, dressed imperiously in red silk, ignored him and ordered a rice dish for him.

There was a lot of consternation over the use of chopsticks.

China sighed at England's failure as rice flew around the table. "Oh damn… bloody hell…" England muttered as he failed to get a single grain of rice into his mouth.

"I mean what's wrong with a good old knife and fork. Or even a spoon?" England said for the thousandth time as China snapped his fingers and had cutlery brought.

England was beginning to think that the Nations were in league against him - this encouraging him to eat foreign foodstuffs was wearing on him. He longed for some beans on toast.

It was also disquieting to have a panda cub sat opposite him chewing bamboo shoots.

"Why is the panda here? And how did you get him through Animal Control at the airport?"

China looked at him, "You worry too much about small details."

"I don't think smuggling exotic animals through British Customs is a small detail," England pointed out of the window at the large 20 foot dragon sat in the yard eating what looked to be fried seaweed. "I don't call that a small detail."

"Don't be rude! That's Mr Ping. He's very sensitive. Belgium, Hungary and Poland all said you'd be like this."

"What do you mean? Like what? Have they been talking about me?"

"Arthur! Everyone is talking about you. You've got yourself a terrible reputation as a lady's man."

"Lady's man!" England almost choked on his fried rice.

China nodded wisely.

"Why is there a six-foot panda over there?" England pointed across the restaurant. "Is it some kind of promotional carry-on?"

China frowned and looked around. So did panda (the small one). The small panda squeaked, jumped off its chair and onto China's lap.

"Oh no…" China muttered, then said something in Mandarin, picked up panda (the small one), put him/her in England's lap (much to his perplexity) and went across the room.

England tried to pat/stroke the bear's head but it turned and glared at him so he stopped.

China approached the figure and began yelling in very angry Mandarin.

England assumed the figure understood as, even though England could not see its features, it looked dejected and hung its head.

It was quite comical. The small slight figure of China shouting at a six-foot tall Panda.

"Some kind of cabaret," England muttered.

He swore the panda said, "Idiot." But surely panda's can't talk?

England cut up his beef and fried rice with a knife and fork and watched the enfolding drama. Behind the panda (the big one) who sat with its head down, a large window looked out onto the street where England could see a figure peering in. A figure dressed head to toe in a black cloak. There was no mistaking that pale face and the knife flashing in their hand.

"Belarus. Oh bugger. She's stalking me," England told the panda (the small one).

The large panda was being severely harangued by China. England couldn't tell if the large panda had said anything back but the large furry costumed figure was being beaten quite soundly by a small Chinaman brandishing a large wok.

He felt rather sorry for whoever it was. "I bet they're on a minimum wage as well," England told panda (the small one). "Poor bugger." He was still trembling over the idea of Belarus stalking him.

He looked through the window nearest to him where there was an equally scary sight - the dragon, Mr Ping, breathing on the glass and looking very troubled.

England realised being glared at by an angry dragon was most unsettling. He assumed Mr Ping was worried for China's safety. England wasn't. China may be tiny but was a master in at least four martial arts and had invented a few besides.

It was only when the large panda took off his head (not literally - the costume head) and answered back in a mixture of broken Mandarin and Russian that England realised it was actually Russia in the panda costume.

"Well, who'd have thought?" England asked Panda (the small one sat on his lap - not the large one, who would never have sat there).

The panda looked back at him and shrugged but continued chewing bamboo shoots.

It was rather like a domestic row between a divorced couple, England mused.

Russia was working himself up to a big argument and then there was a roar behind England and, Mr Ping, evidently worried about his friend China, shoved his huge snout up to the window breaking the glass and England found himself face to face with a 4000-year-old dragon.

"Oh! Excuse me? Do you mind? Your head is in my rice. Waiter! There's a dragon in my rice!" England yelled.

The dragon growled at him, lifted its head and opened its mouth.

England leaped to his feet and ducked under the table with Panda. A burst of flame roared across the restaurant.

Russia broke off from his argument with China and jumped through the other window where Belarus was waiting.

"Brother!" Belarus cried with joy.

Russia fled down the street, followed by Belarus. "Brother!" she yelled. "Come back and we can become one!"

In the restaurant, Mr Ping looked quite pleased with himself for chasing off Russia. China batted him on the nose as flames began to lick around them, "Mr Ping! That was very rude!"

Under the table, England had found a stray fortune cookie. He dreaded to open it, but Panda did it for him.

"Love will find you…" England read out. "I bloody hope not!" he told Panda.

Panda gave him a queer look.

The dragon had by now crashed through the other window causing humans to run for it. As only Nations could see him, it is unknown what the poor passers-by thought was happening.

England crept out from under the table, and hurried out of the restaurant. Flames were catching hold now and people were running around with fire extinguishers.

China took Panda from him, "Thank you for looking after Panda, Arthur," China said as they watched Mr Ping pick up a car and chew it.

But England had already set off down the street, jumping back as a fire engine whizzed by. He really did not want to get mixed up in this nonsense. He wondered vaguely if Denmark and Prussia would pick him up in their taxi. He realised he had no money for taxi or bus fare. He pulled out his battered iphone and watched around the corner as the firemen got their hoses out (he was glad no-one was hurt, however, the sight of the dragon eating a Ford Fiesta disturbed him very much).

There was no answer from Denmark or France's phones. He tried Germany but then remembered that Germany hated him but it was too late to hang up…

"Ja?" Germany sounded annoyed. "Österreich? Was willst du?"* (What do you want?)

England frowned, forgetting that Germany still thought this was Austria's telephone number. "What?"

"Was?"

"Germany? I was wondering if you would be so kind as to…" England began to say. He wondered why on earth he thought Germany would be kind to him. As far as he knew Germany did not like him and the feeling was mutual.

"England?" Germany did not sound happy. But then again he never sounded happy.

"Ja. I mean oui. I mean yes. Could you…?"

"I have still not received recompense from you regarding my car."

"Yes well… I've been rather busy."

"Yes. I heard about you and France…"

"We are not a couple!" England yelled, rubbing his temples.

But Germany wasn't listening, "And you destroyed Italy's restaurant. I had shares in that restaurant."

"I didn't…!"

"And Miss Liechtenstein! Apparently, Switzerland is after you!"

"What?" England was worried now.

"You have got yourself a very bad reputation," Germany told him.

"I didn't do anything! Switzerland was bloody there the whole time!"

"And splitting up Spain and Belgium like that. And stealing Austria's phone…"

The list seemed to go on and on. "I didn't. I haven't," England asserted.

"Moving in with France has really made you an awful person."

"I haven't. We are not a bloody couple!" England yelled again.

He stopped dead when he saw China watching him. He hung up and said lamely, "Germany…" as if this was an explanation.

"He doesn't like you," China said simply and then added, "Do you need a lift home?"

"Yes please," England said, much relieved.

China nodded, "Hop on then," pointing to the dragon. "You hold Panda. Don't drop him and I'll drive."

* * *

The journey home was everything England had feared and less.

Anyone in London looking up would be startled to see a scruffy (England had had no time to change after his visit to the hospital) blond man carrying a panda clutching a small long-haired Chinaman around the waist and both apparently flying through the air in a sitting position. Dragons, or at least this dragon, could not be seen by humans.

Mr Ping flew quite slowly actually. His huge leathery wings spread out 60 feet either side and beat a languorous passage over London. All the pedestrians and traffic below knew of this was sudden gusts as the two Nations, the dragon and the panda flew overhead. They were about 100 feet up in the air England surmised as he clutched China, his legs dangling either side of the massively scaled hide. Mr Ping felt surprisingly warm and the scales, as large as dinner plates, were smooth.

"Could have done with him in the War," England thought, "That would have shown the Luftwaffe."

He resisted the urge to scream as China deftly directed the dragon over the Thames and they banked sharply to the left. There appeared to be no reins. At least Panda seemed unconcerned.

Below them, the London streetlights came on like twinkling fairy lights which reminded England of something. "Hey Tinks? Tinkerbell? You there? Have you seen this? It's like being in a Harry Potter film!"

"Don't bring Tinkerbell here, Arthur. Mr Ping doesn't like fairies."

"How can you not like fairies?" England asked, appalled.

"They remind him of elves," China said.

England had no reply to this. He was starting to feel a little nauseous.

"Do not vomit on Mr Ping. He will see this as a grave insult!" China warned him. "You are nearly home now anyway."

England wasn't sure if it was good to be home. He dreaded what he might find there.

He soon found out, even before he got off the dragon.

Mr Ping landed with a flump on Germany's Mercedes - which gave England some satisfaction.

But Mr Ping was not happy as England saw, with first pleasure and then horror, that his broken window had been replaced with a stained glass window. It showed St George slaying a dragon.

"It wasn't my idea!" England protested as Mr Ping roared and bellowed.

"Arthur! How rude and inconsiderate!" China exclaimed.

Even Panda tutted.

England leaped out of the way as the 20-foot dragon rampaged down the street setting off car alarms as he went.

If Mr Ping was causing devastation to London's streets, England severely worried about the state of his home, particularly if France, Prussia and Denmark were there.

"If you lot are bloody partying…" he began to say as he went in.

China had sped off down the street, trying to tame his dragon.

In the kitchen, everything seemed to be in order. There was a strange smell of beer, garlic and sauerkraut which led him to the sitting room where he found the three Nations, who were all oblivious to his presence.

"I'm telling you that that explosion was awesome, man!" Prussia yelled.

"I agree! It's crazy. But that dude needs more beer and there should be more women in it," Denmark agreed.

They appeared to be watching some movie, England surmised.

"Ah eet needs more l'amor!" France said.

"That guy's a rubbish shot. He should have used a better gun," Denmark said. (England doubted that Denmark knew anything about guns.)

"Yeah but that guy there is the real baddie," Prussia said.

"I do not zink zo. He eez ze hero. You can tell. So handsome, so sexy."

"I think he's going to bring about the downfall of the Western world. A bit like you and your aftershave," Prussia said.

There were exclamations to something on the screen.

"Wow! I did not expect that!"

"Well, that puts a different perspective on things. I thought he was the villain!"

"What are you watching, chaps?" England asked as he stepped into the room.

"Dude! That guy there is going to bring about the end of civilisation!" Denmark yelled, waving a beer can around and pointing at the television screen.

"Ja! And I would not have done that! What an amateur. Where's his gun? I mean what an idiot!" Prussia said.

"You're watching Gardeners World," England said.

"You're back early, mon ami," France said.

"This is crazy stuff, England," Prussia said.

"That guy there is undercover," Denmark said confidently.

"It's bloody Gardeners World!" England told them.

"Downton Abbey isn't on 'til later," Prussia told England.

England shook his head, stepped forward and switched over the channel eliciting howls of protest.

"Man!"

"I want to watch the end!"

"We'll never know how it finishes!"

"They plant herbaceous borders, some geraniums and then prune that plum tree," England replied. "I want to see the nine o' clock news."

"You're such a buzzkill," Denmark whined.

"Yes yes…" England wasn't listening. He was watching in horror at the news headlines which showed a fire at a Chinese restaurant, a UFO spotted over the Thames and then mild earth tremors causing a plethora of car alarms to go off, as well as mysterious cracks to appear in London's streets. A large man in a panda costume was also seen being chased by a small girl in a dark cloak carrying a knife.

"Date went well then?" France said, watching the news.

Denmark and Prussia laughed.

Neither laughed when they found themselves on the other side of England's front door.

England would have kicked France out too but took pity on him as he did have a cast on his foot.

Apparently, Denmark and Prussia's only accommodation in London was their taxi or a storage locker at Kings Cross tube station (they took turns sleeping in it - Denmark complained that it was too small for his fantastic hair) and neither were willing to share with France.

* * *

There was another knock on the door just as England switched on the kettle for a 'brew'.

"Your bell does not work, Arthur," China told him.

"I know this," England sighed, "What do you want?"

"My dragon is missing," China said, entering the kitchen without even a 'by your leave'. England's left eyebrow twitched.

China placed his backpack on the floor where Panda climbed out and toddled off into the lounge.

"I hope he's house-trained," England said.

" _He_ is, but I doubt France is," China replied as they heard France cooing over the panda cub.

"So basically there's a dragon bombing around London causing havoc?" England asked.

"He's a dragon. It's not a Nation," China countered.

"True. I bet Pru and Den between them can cause more damage."

"Pru and Den?" China looked confused.

"Prussia and Denmark." England felt ashamed that he'd slipped into calling them by their nicknames.

"Ah, anyway make me a tea. I need one after tonight. Honestly, a runaway dragon is very difficult to keep track of," China said, sitting down.

"Will you get him back okay?"

"Who? Pru and Den?"

"No. Mr Ping. Why on earth would you want to get Prussia and Denmark?"

"Ah yes. He's very sensitive though."

"Who? Pru and Den?"

"No! Mr Ping!" China stared at him. "What's wrong with you, England? I think you are going round the bend. Mr Ping is very old. He got burgled many many years ago."

"Oh my word." England handed China a mug of tea.

China sniffed and looked suspiciously at the chipped 'I heart Blackpool' mug. "You must really hate me, England," he said.

England ignored him. "Did he claim on the insurance?"

"Insurance?"

"What got stolen?"

"Oh some treasure," China said airily, still looking at the mug suspiciously.

"Insurance should cover it. I'd ring them up."

"It was 2000 years ago, Arthur," China said. England noticed that China only used his human name when he was being condescending. Which was quite a lot. "In a land far far away," China added.

"Ah right. Yes. Before such civility existed. Foreign lands I expect."

"I doubt even Britain had insurance agents back then," China replied.

"No probably not."

"So after that, he's always been particularly sensitive. And depressed."

"Yes well, some awful people around. Thieves and all that… You can't trust anyone these days."

"Dwarves," China said knowingly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It was dwarves."

"What was?"

"Who stole his treasure."

"You can't say that now. It's not PC."

"What?"

"Politically correct."

"I don't think you're right in the head, Arthur. You've turned very odd in the last few decades especially lately since France moved in with you."

"We're not bloody living together!"

At that moment, France limped in, dressed in a red silk dressing gown, his hair in rollers, a face-pack on. "I'm going for a bathe, mon cher," he told them. The panda cub had followed him and was looking the Frenchman up and down.

"Zis panda person told me I was an idiot," France added and shuffled back out.

"He's not bloody living with me!" England reiterated when he saw China's eyebrows raise.

"Of course not. It's just that he's always here and he sleeps here…" China left the sentence hanging.

"That means nothing! He lives here at the moment but he doesn't live with me. Well, he does but not in the same room. He has Alfred's room."

"Yes, okay," China pulled a bottle of something clear out of his backpack. "Anyway we need to talk about Hong Kong."

"You've got custody of him now, China. It's nothing to do with me." England eyed the cool clear liquid being poured into a glass.

"You know you have some responsibility, Arthur."

"Oh bloody hell… him and his sodding fireworks. Ninety-nine bloody years. You wanted him back, China. He's yours now."

The phone rang.

"Hello?" England had taken a sip of the clear liquid and it burned his throat.

"Yo dude Artie! I need to come live with you!"

"Alfred… it's not a good time."

"I don't care. I'm having a crisis… It's either that or I live in the White House basement for four years with Tony." The American yelled.

"Alfred… wait what? Tony? As in Spain Tony?"

"Nah! Tony my alien dude friend."

"Alfred, I've told you, there's no such thing."

"Well anyway, I'm coming over!" the American yelled.

"Your room is being let out!" England yelled back.

"Not to that roller disco again?"

"What?"

"Nothing… it was nothing to do with me. I told Prussia…."

"What?"

"Anyway…" America said quickly. "I'll be over soon on the red-eye!"

"What?" England asked again but America had hung up. He turned to China, "Do you want to take America off my hands?"

"You should make him your colony again," China said and poured out another glass.

"You're not helping," England replied as he took another sip of the liquid.

* * *

When England woke the next morning he was still fully clothed (for which he was grateful). He was in his own bed with a panda sat on his chest, China laid on side and France on the other.

There was a yell outside. Or to be more precise, there was yelling outside. Angry German yelling.

"What in God's name have you done to my car?"

**To Be Continued**


	17. Starman

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, , ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 17 - Starman**

England leapt up, stumbled over France's prone body and staggered to the window, still holding a sleepy panda cub.

There below him looking enraged was Germany.

England could understand why he was enraged. The Mercedes, whilst before just having a battered roof, was now flattened.

"What have you done to my car?" Germany yelled. Again.

England's head hurt. It felt as if a dozen Denmarks had rampaged through it. He had not needed tea more, not since 1956 when France had wanted to marry him.

France appeared next to him, "Allemagne!" France called down. "You are looking gorgeous. How do you do it? Is eet zat new conditioner I gave you?"

Germany was about to answer this, but then remembered why he was there, "You are a bunch of degenerates. This is a den of iniquity!"

"We're not living together!" England shouted, aware of the neighbours.

"Why is my car like this?" Germany shouted.

"A dragon did that. Not us." France said.

"I'm supposed to believe this?"

"Bloody hell, does he ever stop shouting?" England croaked. He went downstairs and opened the door.

"Bunch of hooligans, vandals, imbeciles…" Germany continued as he stepped in.

England ran a hand over his unshaven chin, realised he was still holding the panda cub and said, "Guten morgen to you."

"Oh please! Don't even attempt my language. It's too painful, England."

"Fine," England shrugged and switched on the kettle.

"Mein Gott! What a dreadful place this is!"

"I know, he does not even have a cappuccino machine." France had somehow hopped downstairs, or slid down the banister. England did not want to know.

"And you're a complete deviant, France," Germany said.

England had to nod at that, but his head hurt.

"I only wanted a coffee machine," France said.

England swallowed a couple of painkillers.

"Zay are mine, mon ami. For mon foot," France took the bottle of pills away from him.

"Drug addicts as well," Germany smugly said. "And smuggling exotic animals into the country." He pointed at panda. "If I'm not mistaken pandas are not wild in this country?"

"The one I saw last night was," England said and shuddered. "It was six foot tall and spoke Chinese and Russian."

"I think you are going mental," Germany declared. "Like those old Nations who eventually lose their minds. Before you know it, you'll be retiring."

England glared at him, squinting against the glare, "Have you been talking to my brother?"

"Nein! But it is obvious. Anyone can see your descent into an immoral abyss."

England opened the door, shoved the big German outside and closed it. "Oh do fuck off," he said.

"I do not zink you are zinking into an abyss, mon cher. Not yet anyway," France said.

"I will return with my lawyer!" Germany called through the letterbox.

Panda growled.

"Quite right," England agreed.

China emerged, looking as fresh as spring blossom, "I need someone to help in finding my dragon," he said. But then he stopped when he looked at them both.

England was unshaven, wearing a stained t-shirt of dubious origins (France's) and too-tight jeans. Whilst France was in a luminous onesie with a foot in a cast.

"Not you two though," China said, looking them up and down.

"Well bye then," England said. "Hope you catch Mr Pong."

"Ping."

"Yes, whatever."

* * *

Later…

England's head had almost ceased feeling as if a drunken Dane had been partying in it. He had showered and was feeling a little better. The painkillers Francis had been prescribed were wonderful for hangovers, he thought and went particularly well with tea.

He was just listening to Radio 4's 'Thought for the day' and actually thinking that perhaps this was not going to be a bad day. True, he was still wearing a dubious t-shirt that once belonged to France and realised that, since France had sent his clothes away in a charity donation van, he had no other clothes to wear (apart from a dodgy pirate costume, a Guards uniform and a tatty old t-shirt from the 1980s) but things were looking up.

France announced, dramatically, suddenly and completely without warning that he had a 'job'.

England, holding his china mug full of tea and just about to dunk his custard cream biscuit, almost fell off his chair. "Job?" he squawked. "Job?"

"Oui," France said and went upstairs - by shuffling up each step on his bottom.

England's flabber was well and truly gasted. In fact, for a few moments he just sat stock still as if he'd been hit on the head. "A job…" he muttered to himself wonderingly.

He'd never heard of any of his fellow Nations holding down a proper job for longer than a few days. Denmark and Prussia's joint job as taxi drivers was sure to end soon, he thought. And he was sure they had not realised that they shouldn't really be sharing the job or that both of them need not be actually in the taxi. He'd heard rumours that Russia and the Baltics had had to find jobs to supplement Russia's fondness for vodka, but he seriously doubted this. Who on earth would employ them? He discounted the Italy brothers - their restaurant was, according to the gossip chain, rarely open and when it was open, there were often just fellow Nations dining there. He wondered if those tomato stains would ever come out of that suit… and then remembered that France had thrown that suit in the charity donation bag.

"What job have you got?" he finally called up to France, who was 'making himself respectable' - which, in England's view, would take a bloody long time.

France did not answer the question but shouted back, "I need you to give me a lift, mon cher."

England's eye twitched as it did every time France called him that. But things were looking up. If France had a job, that meant he was both earning money so he could pay back his debts and also, and most promising, he would be out of the house. England did a little dance around the kitchen. He didn't care about the job, he decided, as long as it wasn't illegal or that France wasn't bringing anyone back to his home. He stopped dancing suddenly. "You're not a bloody Avon Lady like Poland are you?" he yelled up to France.

"Non!"

England recommenced dancing. He might finally get his house back, he thought. He turned up the radio. In fact, he was feeling so jazzed up, he switched over from Radio 4 to Radio 2 and danced around the kitchen to some modern music (from the 1990s).

He stopped suddenly when a voice yelled through the letterbox, "Yo! Artie man! Can I come in?"

England hurriedly switched off the radio and dived under the table. If he didn't answer then the daft American might think he was out.

"Yo! I totally know you're there! I could hear your crappy old radio!"

England groaned.

"I can hear you groaning!" America added.

England wondered if he just stayed where he was, whether the young American, whose attention span was shorter than a gnat's, would eventually just go away.

He didn't.

"Aww let me in! I'm jetlagged! I brought some twinkies! I know you like them!"

England jumped up and flung open the door. America promptly fell in.

"For goodness sake, Alfred. You know I don't like twinkles or whatever it is you call them."

"Twinkies, man."

"Whatever. Get up. You look like a slob."

"Well dude, so do you! You look like Francy-pants. Anyway, I'm moving back in."

"What do you mean 'back in'? You never lived here!"

"Yeah I did."

"You have a room here, but that doesn't mean… oh bugger."

America hauled in a huge rucksack that was bigger than himself and a huge black bag full of washing which he dumped on England. "Thanks, dude. I need to crash out for a bit. That election was exhausting."

England had no idea what he was saying but promptly flung the black bag of washing into the kitchen where it came to a rest next to the washing machine. He would get France to deal with it. The rucksack he couldn't even lift at all. He was convinced there was a body in it.

There was yelling from upstairs. England sighed. It was an old argument.

"This is my room, not yours, Francy-pants!"

"L'Amerique! You should give way to your elders and your betters!"

"Well you're neither!"

"I am older zan you!"

"You're not better!"

"Zis is my room now, young l'Amerique!"

"I'm going to tell Artie!"

"You do zat."

"Put your pants back on, man. That just ain't nice."

"Honhonhon."

England shouted upstairs, "In the name of God's trousers, will you two stop bloody arguing?"

France shouted back downstairs, "Mon cher! He has put his silly flag over the top of my flag."

England ignored them both and turned up the radio. There were further howls of protest upstairs but England, wisely put the kettle on.

He could hear France hopping down the stairs and then skidding down on the bannister. "Mon cher! Silly l'Amerique has taken over my room!"

"I don't care."

"I know zat you do."

"For God's sake… Where is this bloody job? I'll take you right now."

"Ah mon cher…"

* * *

Shirley's Beauticians stood in a rather insalubrious back street just five miles from Arthur's house. As they pulled up outside, after a roundabout way which took them almost into the city itself, a woman with a bad hair dye waved at them through the window. She was brandishing a curling implement.

"Is this it?" England asked.

"Shirley's?" America asked, incredulously.

The satnav had taken them there and the satnav clearly did not like America or his driving.

But then again, neither did England.

The reason America was driving was because his huge 'Hummer' or whatever it was - England was unsure, it just looked like a massive black tank - was parked right across England's drive and as England could not and would not get out his precious Bentley (France was not allowed anywhere near it or even to touch it or look at it) and the Mini was hemmed in, the 'Hummer' was the vehicle of choice.

France had wanted to drive. But as England pointed out that as his foot was in a pot and as he was bloody useless, that was a no-no. Also America pointed out that only he could drive it as he was insured for it.

But America was also jet-lagged… He had drunk two litres of coke for the caffeine and his eyes looked as if he were wearing bottle-bottom glasses.

"Zis is eet…" France said. "You will aidez-moi, mon ami?"

"Shirley's beauticians? Really? What on God's green earth are you going to do?" England asked as he clambered out of the vehicle. It was like mountain-climbing. The bloody thing should be equipped with crampons. He said as much to Alfred.

Alfred frowned at this, "Aren't they what ladies use when they have lady problems?"

England shook his head and didn't answer. He really didn't want to have this conversation with America. Again. Instead he helped Francis out of the car. This involved basically pulling him out and half-catching him until they both ended up laid on the pavement.

England leapt to his feet. "For God's sake, Francis!"

"Sorry, mon ami."

"What the bloody hell are you doing here anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"What job are you going to do?"

"I am a hairdresser, mon ami."

"No you're not."

"Oui, I am."

"No you're not."

"You saying I am not, does not make it untrue. Do you not remember when I cut your hair when you were little?"

"Oh do bugger off, France…" England said and blushed. "Actually yes I do. And it looked just the bloody same!"

France pouted and hopped into the salon. "Bonjour girls!" he called. He threw a few red roses around and smiled charmingly. England hated him.

"Pick me up at…" here France turned to the woman with the bad dye job, presumably the 'Shirley' of the title, "What time do we close, ma chérie?"

"Four o' clock," she breathed, swooning.

"…Three thirty pm," France told England without missing a beat.

"I'm not your bloody chauffeur."

France smiled, "Oh but you are at ze moment… or I could ring for Denmark and Prussia…"

"I'm not having those two loons in my house again!"

"Very well zen!" France closed the door on him.

"Bloody French git…" England muttered as he attempted to climb back in the 'Hummer'. "I bloody don't like this vehicle," he told America. He got no response. He looked across. America was not there. "Alfred?" he asked. He then looked behind him. America was sound asleep, curled up on the backseat, snoring loudly, clutching a transformer toy in his hand. He looked so young and innocent that England smiled and then poked him. Hard.

"Bloody wake up, you silly Yank!" England shouted.

There was no response. Just a snort and Alfred's legs twitched as if he were running.

"Chasing rabbits…" England sighed. He clambered into the driving seat and tried to adjust the mirror. It came off in his hand. "Oh." He threw the mirror onto the backseat next to America and searched for the ignition key. There wasn't one. "Oh." He said again when he found an 'on/off' switch. "Well…" he pressed this and smiled as the engine started. But then he looked down. "Oh bugger…"

There was no gear stick. Ah yes, he remembered America could not cope with a gear stick or 'stick shift' as he called it, which made England wince.

After putting the vehicle in drive, England attempted to switch on an indicator. This resulted in wipers whizzing across the windscreen. He pressed more buttons. Lights came on. The radio came on. That infernal song 'Is this the way to Amarillo?' blasted out at him. He pressed more buttons. The radio got louder. The sunroof opened (England hadn't realised there was a sunroof) and then half-closed. It stayed stuck. A warning light came on. By now England was frantic and pressing every button. The indicators were flashing, the hazard warning lights were flashing, the headlights were going on and off. The windscreen wipers skidded across the windscreen, and now to England's horror, the electric windows had joined in and were opening and closing.

"For God's sake!" he yelled. "Bloody American silliness…" he could think of no other insult at that moment.

Amazingly, America stayed asleep.

There was a tap on the window. England tried to press a button. The heater came on full. England tried to switch it off, which made the air con come on. Instead he put his hands over the blower. Abruptly, his seat then shifted and fully reclined. With an effort (he had to shuffle up as he was now lying down), he looked up to find Germany glaring in at him.

"You are an imbecile, England," Germany mouthed at him.

England shook his head. Not just because he didn't agree with this insult, but because he couldn't lip-read.

Germany pulled open the door. "What are you doing?" Germany asked him incredulously.

"What do you think I'm doing?" England responded.

Germany looked over the flashing car, the wipers going so fast they were a blur, the radio was on full blast, as were the heaters and the air conditioning. The sunroof opened and then closed. "I think you're trying to wreck another perfectly good vehicle," Germany replied.

"I have no idea what you mean," England said, feeling at a disadvantage as he was lying down. Behind him, America snored on.

"I am on my way to your house with my lawyer, England. I hope to meet you there and we can sort out how you are going to recompense me for my car."

"Well I can tell you now that you are getting nothing from me!"

"Why? Because you're stuck in this car and don't know how to drive it?"

"Oh bugger off," England said, attempting to sit up so he could actually reach the damn steering wheel. A traffic warden was attaching a parking ticket to the windscreen. "Oh bugger," England repeated. But then again, he thought, it wasn't his bloody car.

Driving home, he drove over the kerb three times, almost ran into the back of a double-decker bus and then finally abandoned the car 500 yards from his house. He didn't really want his neighbours to think he had bought the damned thing. All this time, the lights flashed, the wipers were going and the sunroof was half open. He left it with the sunroof open and just hoped it would rain - that would serve America right for going to sleep, England thought.

He stepped inside his kitchen to find Germany already there - scrubbing the table. "This place is a disgrace," Germany told him.

"How did you get in?"

"Your door was wide open."

"What?"

"Your door was wide open," Germany repeated, adding bleach to the table surface. "If you think I am going to have a cup of tea sat here then…" he didn't finish.

England frowned, "I definitely locked the door," he said.

Germany shrugged. "If you are so careless with your security then you deserve to be invaded," he told the Englishman.

England stared at him, "So… compensation. You can go and stick your head in a food blender. I am not paying you a penny."

"My lawyer may have something to say about that."

England laughed, "Oh yes?"

"Si!" came a voice behind him.

Spain stood in the doorway, in a smart suit carrying a briefcase.

"You have got to be bloody joking!" England exclaimed.

"I am a fully qualified lawyer. I qualified in my spare century," Spain said.

"I didn't get a spare century," Germany said grumpily.

"I bet you hired him because he's cheap," England observed while Spain opened his briefcase spilling tomatoes on the newly scrubbed kitchen table.

Spain looked upset.

Germany ignored them and began to wipe down England's kitchen worktop before switching on the kettle. He acted as if he should be in a Hazmat suit.

"Have you seen China's dragon?" England asked, to deflect from the idiocy.

Germany stopped and looked at him, "I think you are going round the bend. There are no such things as dragons. The next thing you will be telling us is that there are aliens."

England was about to say something else when the door to the lounge opened and a small grey-white figure with huge red eyes peered through, "Keep it down! I'm trying to play Call of Duty," the small person said.

"Oh bloody hell…" England muttered. "Bloody Tony…"

"Si?" Spain asked still gathering up his tomatoes.

"Not you… I mean Tony the alien. Bloody Alfred, bringing his alien friend."

***To be continued***


	18. Hairspray

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, , ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 18 - Hairspray**

England stared at the small alien until it/he turned and went back into the lounge. England shook his head. Surely not? He turned to look at Germany, the most logical, rational and therefore, most boring, Nation England knew.

"Did you see that?" he asked.

"See what?" Germany asked, looking up from his papers.

"That alien?"

"You can't distract me like that, England," Germany told him. "Spain, tell him how much he owes me."

Spain who was dozily looking from one to the other, pulled out a calculator. He proceeded to scratch his head, wrinkled his nose and peered at the device confusedly.

Germany sighed and leaned across, took the calculator from the Spaniard, switched it on and handed it back.

"Ah!" Spain smiled happily and began punching numbers in.

"That Mercedes Benz was top of the range and so you owe me…" Germany began.

Spain held the calculator up so England could see the number.

England was still looking at the lounge door and wondering if he was indeed going mad. He turned back, looked at the calculator, "Twenty-five quid? Bargain."

Germany almost exploded with rage. Obviously he didn't. That would have made the now clean kitchen very messy. "Give me that calculator!" he shouted at Spain.

Spain looked hurt and handed it to him.

Germany almost hit him around the head with it, but didn't. Spain was quite a placid Nation, usually. But could be provoked to anger sometimes and when he was, he could be quite formidable.

Germany tapped in some numbers, his jaw clenched.

"Do you want a cup of tea, Spain?" England asked.

"Si!" Spain said happily and then remembered something, "No! You came between me and Belgium!" Spain told him.

"It's 'you came between Belgium and I', not 'Belgium and me'," England answered, switched on the kettle, realised to his annoyance that Germany had already done this earlier and picked up a teabag and mug. He was not going to offer Germany a cup.

"You're such an idiot, England," Germany said and added, "One hundred thousand pounds."

England almost dropped a mug.

"…With twenty thousand pounds of costs. Of course, I can translate this into euros if you prefer," Germany added.

"I hardly think so!" England exclaimed.

"Si!"

"Spain, tell him the legal bit," Germany nodded at the Spaniard.

Spain cleared his throat and shuffled some papers and began reading, "South Italy shall belong to the great and glorious Kingdom of Spain until… oh no, that's the wrong one…" he shuffled again. Germany sighed.

"You'll not get a penny from me," England told Germany.

"We'll see about that," Germany said and looked pointedly at his lawyer.

Spain blushed and looked flustered, "Oh wait, here it is!" he began reading again, "And that the great and glorious Nation of Spain shall be called Boss Spain from now on or until little Romano says he can't… oh wait… that's not right…" Spain stopped and looked at the piece of paper where England and Germany could clearly see the latter words scrawled in crayon.

"Yes… Boss Spain…" England muttered.

"Anyway, you'll be receiving a court order in due course to reimburse me for my car," Germany said.

"Si!" Spain said and rummaged in his briefcase. Various papers, most of them covered in tomato seeds were flung about. A sandwich was found and eaten. A bottle of sangria was discovered and placed on the table - much to England's consternation. He'd had more than enough of foreign alcoholic beverages that week.

Germany stood up, straightened his tie, nodded at England, "You'll be served with court papers. I'll see myself out."

"You should try having some fun for a change," England said, knowing this would get a rise out of the German. "And keep an eye out for that dragon as well, will you?" England said, slamming the door behind him. He trudged back to the table in his slippers.

"I got stuck in an elevator once with Italy and a soda stream salesman. I think that was enough 'fun' to last me a lifetime," Germany said to the shut door. He strode off when he realised nobody was listening.

"I didn't find the papers. But I did find a copy of when Joanna the Mad told me about her daughter marrying…" Spain began to tell England all the intrigues of the Spanish court, which England found utterly nonsensical.

England shoved him out of the door. He was about to close it but was stopped by America who slammed it back open. "Yo! Artie! My main man! And Tony, my main man!"

"Did you have a good sleep?" England asked, resigned to the noise.

"Heroes do not sleep!" America yelled. "Isn't that right, Tony dude?" he asked Spain.

Spain looked confused and looked round, wondering if America was talking to someone else.

"Can't you go elsewhere?" England asked.

"I could, but I know you'd miss me," America said, charging through and heading into the lounge. "Tony my main man! You're okay! I suppose jetlag doesn't affect you seeing as you're from Vega Two or wherever."

Spain looked confused. "I'm from Barcelona," he said slowly.

"He doesn't mean you… oh never mind."

England's phone rang. He hesitated to check it. He was worried it might be some idiotic Nation threatening to bother him. His day so far was not going well.

It was an idiotic Nation bothering him. It was France.

"Ah mon cher! Can you pick me up?"

"France! You've only just bloody got there. What kind of working day is that?"

"There has been a problem."

"Oh yes? A Battle of Normandy type problem? An Agincourt type problem? A…" here England hesitated, "…Pants type problem?"

"No, mon cher. It was a perm that went very badly wrong!"

England frowned, "Are you panting? You filthy bugger!" England said suspiciously. He'd had these type of telephone conversations with France before. Who knew where France's hands were or what they were fiddling with.

"Oui… I am running… or trying to run… I am hopping."

"I'm not picking you up. Ring Denmark and Prussia or someone."

"Oh Angleterre! I thought you loved me!"

"He does!" America yelled down the phone, grabbing it from England. "I'll come get you, Francy-pants, I'm the hero!"

"Oh mon dieu!"

But America had hung up. "Let's do this, men!" he declared, giving a dazed-looking Spain a high-five.

England crossed his arms, "This has absolutely bugger all to do with me. If that complete moron has gotten himself into some sort of trouble then that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with me…"

"…I am not, absolutely not, going to rescue France and we are not, absolutely not, in any way, shape or form, a couple…" England finished this sentence sat in the back of the 'Hummer', still in his slippers, still clutching his mug of tea and found his bottom was wet.

"Why in God's name is my bum wet?" he asked the other occupants of the vehicle.

Spain sat in the passenger seat next to America, looked around, and shrugged. He was still clutching the briefcase and seemed to think he was on some kind of exciting adventure. "Where are we going again?" he asked America.

America was driving. In a fashion. "We're on a rescue!" said the hero in heroic fashion.

England did not really want to rescue France. If France had indeed upset some poor unfortunate customers at a hairdressing salon then that was his look-out. He certainly did not feel empowered to do any rescuing whilst he had a soggy bottom. He told America as much. "I need to go home and change my trousers," he told his former colony.

"Dude, if you can't control your bladder then that's your problem."

England growled to himself. "This seat is wet!" he said and realised that the sunroof had been left open by some imbecile (himself actually) and the typical English weather had done the rest. "I cannot possibly partake in a rescue mission whilst I have wet trousers."

"It never bothered you in the War," America told him cryptically.

Spain raised an eyebrow and smiled.

"I have no idea what you mean…" England said, finishing his tea and trying to cross his legs.

America suddenly swerved down a side street and pulled up on the pavement. "There he is!" he yelled, pointing even before he'd switched off the engine.

"Francis! We've come to rescue you!" Spain shouted.

All three Nations watched in fascination as France hopped down the road as fast as his crutches could carry him. He was being harangued by three women. All of them looked angry. England recognised one as being the eponymous 'Shirley' from 'Shirley's hairdressers', another was presumably the one with the bad perm - half her hair was in a high afro, the other half was as flat as England's own. England had no idea what the other woman was telling France off for, but he sympathised.

With a collective sigh, the Nations slowly got out. America rubbing his hands - his opportunities for contact with humans was often severely limited so he was looking forward to this.

"Excuse me, ladies," England began, interrupting.

France fell onto his neck with relief, "Ah mon cher! You have no idea what zay have done to me! Ze accusations!"

"Get off me! Who did you touch?" England asked, suspiciously.

"Yo ladies!" America said, looking at them with interest. "How's it going? Is one of you the queen?"

"Are you being bloody funny?" one of the ladies asked.

"I'm very sorry about my friend here," England said as he extricated himself from Francis' grip. "I see that he's ruined your hair with that perm…" he said to the half-afro lady and then turned to the other who had virulent green-blue hair, "And your dye job…"

"You cheeky bastard! My hair was like that when I went in!" said the lady with the green-blue hair. "I'm sticking up for my friend!"

"Ah."

Spain was stood staring at them. "I like it," he said dopily.

"Well we'll be off then…" England said, pulling his fellow Nations away. He knew that police sirens were never far off.

"But do you know the queen?" America persisted.

"I'm so sorry. My friends have escaped from a lunatic asylum just this morning…" England explained. "Get in the car…" he hissed at America. He didn't need to tell France, who was already heading off.

"That Francis Napoleon person has ruined my business! He only worked for me for two hours and already I've lost six customers. He also drank all my coffee!" 'Shirley' told England.

England commiserated. "Yes, I feel for you, I really do."

"Can you do something with my hair?" Spain asked 'Shirley'. "My girlfriend, who this man here…" here Spain nodded at England, "keeps trying to split me up from, tells me it's too boring."

"Hey? Isn't Poland's domovoi called Shirley?" America asked suddenly.

"Shush America…" England said quickly.

"What's a domovoi?" Spain asked.

"Your hair looks nice…" Shirley said. But the other women had already realised France had made his escape.

"Come on, Shirl! Get him!" they screeched.

"Thanks…" Spain said dreamily. "See!?"

"It's some kind of European house spirit rubbish…" America replied.

"What is?" England asked but didn't wait to hear but hurried to rescue France.

France had locked himself in America's Hummer and was pretending he couldn't hear the women pounding on the vehicle's doors.

"Perhaps everyone needs to calm down," England said.

It was the wrong thing to say.

"What's that strange noise?" Spain asked.

"The police!" England said.

"Coolio!" America said.

"France open this bloody door!" England yelled.

"Non!"

"And we're illegally parked…" England said.

"This is freakin' hilarious! You guys kill me! What are they going to arrest us for?" America said, his eyes shining.

A traffic warden was now circling the car like a vulture circling a carcass.

"We're just going to move, officer," England told the traffic warden.

"I'm not an officer," the traffic warden told him grumpily.

"No, but you do a most respectable service for the community…"

"You're still getting a ticket."

"Bugger."

"Are you a police officer? Do you carry a gun?" America asked fascinated.

One of the women was now hammering on the Hummer's windows with a hair straightener.

"Please don't do that," England pleaded. "I know it's a dreadful car, but I'm absolutely sure that somehow I will end up paying…"

She ignored him and smashed the window.

The other woman was already climbing in and trying to grab France. The mighty and glorious former French Empire (England hesitated to call him an empire as he was sure France had only been messing about at being an Empire) cowered in the opposite corner of the back seat. "Oh mon dieu!" he cried and then shouted, "Why is mon derriere so wet?"

"That's the rain. Some idiot left the sunroof open. I also have a soggy bottom," England announced. Turned around and realised he was talking to a rather tall London police officer.

"Wow! A real police officer!" America was amazed.

"What's going on here?" the policeman asked.

Another one was already attempting to pull the women off France.

"I claim diplomatic immunity!" France yelled. He'd been in this situation far too many times.

"We're Nations!" America told the police. He got an elbow in the ribs from England.

"I'm from Barcelona!" Spain told them.

"Francis Louis de Chevalier Bonaparte Bonnefoy, French Diplomatic Service," France told the police. "This lady here is accusing me of crimes against hair."

"He ruined my business! I wish I'd never employed him!" Shirley told the policeman.

"I totally understand, my good woman," England butted in. "Honestly, I've had to put up with him for centuries."

"Him and his gay boyfriend are a menace!" the 'good woman' said.

"I say! We're not a couple!" England remonstrated.

"You guys kill me! This is great!" America said, filming the whole thing on his phone.

"And this car is illegally parked," the traffic warden said. "And this particular gentleman," here he pointed at England, "Is notorious around London for not paying parking tickets. He already has had one car impounded and wheel-clamped."

"I bloody am not!" England protested.

"And he tried to fight me in Feliciano's restaurant," Spain added.

"Assault…" the policeman wrote down in a small black book.

"Will you stop bloody filming?" England shouted into America's phone.

"Disturbing the peace…"

England found himself, for the fourth time that week in the back of a police van in police custody with France. America yelled after them, "What is police custard?" England ignored him. The 'boy' had been no use whatsoever.

To his further shame, the whole sorry affair had been filmed on America's phone and even worse, Germany had driven past shaking his head in disgust.

"I hate them all," England muttered.

 ***Author's Notes:**

 **A Domovoi is indeed a house spirit in Slavic mythology and legends. I referenced domovois in the Chapter 'Domovoi' in A Day in the Life and mentioned that Poland's domovoi is called Shirley…**


	19. Jailhouse Rock

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, , ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 19 - Jailhouse Rock**

"Why in God's name am I stuck here with you?" England was sat on the floor and eyed France who sat opposite him on the bench/bed.

They were in a tiny cell the size of Denmark's head, and it was just like Denmark's head - empty, dusty and quite dark.

"Can we have a light on at least? Can I have a phone call?" England called. "We're entitled to one phone call each."

"Did you see ze nice police officer? I zink he likes me."

England crinkled his nose as if someone had stuck a turd under it. "I do not zink, I mean er think, that you feeling that policeman's bottom helped our predicament."

"Non?"

"What do you mean 'non'?" Non, it didn't or are you disagreeing with me?"

France thought about this.

England didn't wait for his answer, "Since you moved into my house you've ruined my life!" he said. "Don't interrupt me!" he added even before France had opened his mouth. "You've got me arrested, ruined my reputation with the other Nations, my bathroom got vandalised by Russia because of you, I married Belarus - illegally I might add - because of you, and, and… I missed the last episode of Downton Abbey."

"Your life was boring before I came along. Face it, mon ami. All ze Nations now zink zat you are a ladies' man."

"That is not good!" England yelled.

The door opened before England could launch himself at France.

"Is it ze boy?" France asked. (He, England and often Scotland referred to America as the 'boy'.) It wasn't. It was a policeman.

"You!" he pointed at England. "You're allowed one telephone call to your lawyer."

"I don't have one." England said.

"A next of kin?"

England thought about this. He certainly was not going to ring any of his brothers. They all hated him.

* * *

"Alfred?" he asked as soon as the phone on the other end of the line was picked up. It was his own landline phone he'd rung. His logic for this was that surely America would have gone straight back there and as his own mobile phone had been confiscated, he could not remember any other numbers. It wasn't Alfred, however. It was someone else. That someone else sounded very familiar.

"Hullo? This is Arthur Kirkland's house," came the mystery voice. It sounded quite squeaky and high-pitched.

"Who the bloody hell is this?"

"Is this one of those scam phone calls? I'm not sending any money to Nigeria."

"I don't want any money. Actually I do, for bail. And I know it's Arthur Kirkland's house. It's my bloody house!"

"Oh yes? A likely story."

"Who is this?" England asked, suspicious.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Arthur! Who are you?"

"Well this is Arthur's house, so how can you be Arthur?"

This was insane, England thought. "Denmark! If that's you on helium, I will end you!"

"Denmark?"

"Whoever you are, you need to come down to Highgate Police Station and bring money," England said. For all he knew he was talking to a bloody burglar.

"Ah! Money! I knew it was a scam!"

England was about to shout something else but stopped to think who it could be. Austria? He could be known as a troll. Denmark? He didn't rule this out, but the person sounded too articulate. Prussia? It certainly wasn't his brother, Hamish. Scotland couldn't disguise his Scottish accent if his life depended on it.

He was about to say something else when the policeman cut the phone off. "Two minutes are up."

"Well, bloody damn!" England said and then saw the man's severe look and said in as polite a way as possible, "Can I call someone else?"

"No." The policeman led him back to the cell and pointed at France, "Now you."

He was clearly not a conversationalist.

"You may have to carry me in your big strong arms," France simpered.

England shook his head at him.

"I am wounded you see…" France pointed at his foot. "I have been in such battles you have no idea…"

"You're an armed forces veteran? I thought you were a hairdresser?"

"Oui, Colonel Bonnefoy of ze Resistance."

"Francis…" England warned.

"I mean French Foreign Legion," France corrected.

"What a load of codswallop! You've never been in a desert in your life!" England shouted.

"You shouldn't abuse the vets. He's obviously spilt blood for his country," the policeman said.

"I have!" France said dramatically. "And wine…" he added, hopping to the door. But the policeman hadn't heard. "I have seen lots of action…" he leered.

"So have I! A bloody sight more than you!" England yelled after them.

"He was in ze scouts." England heard France say as the door was closed and locked.

England sagged against the door. "Ring Alfred or someone sensible," he shouted. (The two were obviously not the same person.) "He'd better bloody not be playing bloody Fish or whatever the bloody hell that game is and don't bloody waste your call on trying to have some wine delivered!"

* * *

Over at England's house, America was indeed playing Call of Duty (so England was almost correct…). The American looked up as Tony (the alien) walked in.

"Who was that on the phone, dude?" he asked.

Tony shrugged, "A scammer asking for money."

America nodded. "You can't trust anyone these days. I wonder when England and Francy-pants will ring?"

Tony (the alien) shook his head, looking straight in America's eyes as he did so.

"I wonder if they're still in that police station?" America said to himself and went back to his game. Tony (the alien) ignored him and wandered off upstairs.

The other Tony (Spain) came in, "I made paella!"

"Yo Spain, my main man!"

Spain, who had never been called anyone's 'main man' before looked quite alarmed.

America guzzled the paella, talked with his mouth full, "So what do you reckon, man?"

Spain looked worried.

"Do you think we should rescue Francy-pants as well?" America asked.

Tony (Spain) nodded, "He's my friend."

"Do you think they're still in custard?" America asked.

Obviously, America meant custody, but Spain did not know this and looked even more worried. "That would be terrible!" he said, thinking of England's cooking. He'd partaken of England's custard once and did not wish to repeat the experience.

"Then that settles it! I'll just finish this paella," America pronounced it 'pee-ella'. "Grab my big spoon and we'll get going! Yeehaw!"

* * *

Meanwhile, over at the police station...

"Zay love me, zay really do, mon ami."

"No, they don't."

"You say zis as you are jealous."

"I'm saying zis, I mean this, because it's clearly untrue."

"Why do you zay zis?"

"Because that man threw you in and then wiped his hands. He looked pleased to be rid of you."

"Ah oui…"

England shook his head. This conversation was like plaiting fog, "Who did you ring anyway?" he asked, to change the topic.

"Pierre, my most faithful servant."

"Poor bugger. I thought he'd retired."

"Zis is Pierre mark two."

"Ah."

"And zen I rang ze most reliable Nation I could zink of."

"Oh no, I don't want any of zem, I mean them, to know I'm in jail."

France smiled, "Eet eez all over ze youtube."

"Damn! Who did you ring? Reliable?" England racked his brains, "Estonia? Lithuania?" They were the only sensible Nations he could think of.

"Non non…" France shook his head at each of these suggestions.

"Who zen… I mean, then?"

"Your French accent is coming along well," France observed.

"Bugger off."

"Prussia and Denmark of course."

"You've got to be absolutely kidding me! They aren't sensible. They've never been sensible. You might as well have phoned a bunch of monkeys."

"But Prussia is very good at plotting, mon ami."

"He's an idiot. He managed to lead a Panzer division off a cliff in the War."

"Ah leetle Gilbert…" France smiled at the memory.

"And if I remember rightly, the German High Command did not allow him to any meetings after he put laxatives in the tea."

"Ah oui."

"If he does that with his own allies…" England didn't finish his rant. The wall of the cell exploded inwards and France who had been sitting on the bench with his back to the wall was flung across the cell into England's arms.

"Mon dieu!"

* * *

"Well men, this is it! Now we have to storm the building!" America yelled to his 'men'.

These 'men' consisted of Spain (still holding a briefcase full of tomatoes), Prussia and Denmark who happened to turn up at the police station at the same time as America, and a harrassed-looking Frenchman by the name of Pierre.

"You're Francis' stooge aren't you?" Prussia asked the man.

The man nodded. He looked nervous. As well he might - surrounded as he was by Nations.

"Who are we rescuing? A cute chick?" Denmark asked.

"Nah man. Francis." Prussia answered.

"He's not cute or a chick," Denmark said and took a swig of beer and belched loudly.

"That's just your opinion," Prussia told him.

"We're here to rescue dude Artie and Francy-pants from a dessert situation!" America said.

"Do you mean desert?" Prussia asked, frowning.

"No! It's exactly as I said," America told him.

"He's not been baking again has he?" Prussia looked worried.

Spain was not happy, "I do not like England. He split up me and Belgium."

Prussia nodded, "He's a buzzkill."

"He's a fellow Nation and he's stuck in custard," America said confidently. This obviously called for a rescue in his eyes and as he was the hero he should be the one to lead it.

"He didn't give us a tip for when we drove him and Belarus," Denmark pointed out.

"Don't say that name!" Prussia yelled, shuddering and looking around nervously.

"Well men, let's do this!" America yelled. "I bet John Wayne didn't pro… pro…"

"Procrastinate?" Pierre offered.

"… No, I mean mess around," America said.

"We're with you, dude," Denmark said.

"I'm not…" Spain muttered.

But America marched into the police station and leaned across the front desk. A very large Police Sergeant looked back at him, "Well?"

"Yes, I am, thanks." America said. He'd been taught to be polite by England.

"What do you want?"

"Howdy!" America said. (Obviously still channeling John Wayne) "We've come for our pals…"

"Well pals is putting it a bit strong," Prussia interrupted.

Denmark nodded and belched.

"You two people look familiar," the policeman said.

"Well we might be! We're very famous!" Prussia said.

"We were on Britain's Got Talent!" Denmark said.

"No Den… it was X Factor."

"I think you'll find it was Britain's Got Talent."

"Or was it Britain's Got Talent? I can't remember. Maybe you're right?" Prussia looked confused and rubbed his awesome hair.

"I can't remember which stage we got thrown off," Denmark agreed.

"There's been so many," Prussia nodded.

"That Simon Cowell didn't like it when you mooned him."

"No or when you snogged Cheryl Cole!"

"Happy days…"

"X Factor!" they both shouted together and high-fived each other.

America turned to them, "Shut up, dudes! This is serious. We have to rescue Artie and creepy dude Francy-pants from that custard." He turned back to the Sergeant. "I brought a big spoon to help eat the custard."

Before the Nations (and Pierre) knew what was happening they had been thrown out, down the steps of the police station and were lying in a tangle of arms and legs on the pavement. A large London police officer stood at the top of the steps glaring at them.

America jumped to his feet (after shoving Prussia off him first) and dusted himself down. He didn't appear to be bothered or disheartened by this turn of events. He was American and a hero and heroes did not get downhearted or put off. Even if they had someone stood next to them telling them that they should 'give up and go home'.

Even if they were at the wrong police station.

* * *

England stared at the hole in the cell wall. France was clinging to him and saying he had saved his life.

"Alfred? Did you blow a bloody hole in that wall?" England called, shoving France off him.

A huge green scaly head suddenly appeared and filled the hole. It was not Alfred.

"Aaargh!" England screamed.

"Honestly, Arthur. You are such a drama queen!" China said, also poking his head through the opening.

"Drama queen?! It's a bloody dragon!"

"We are rescuing you," China told him calmly.

"Well we were waiting for America," England replied as he gingerly got on board the dragon.

Sirens could be heard and alarms. It seemed to be the soundtrack of his life at the moment.

"Well I don't see him anywhere, do you?" China said and began telling 'Mr Ping' the directions in Chinese.

France climbed on behind England and wrapped his arms around England's waist. England, in turn, had his arms around China.

"Europeans…" China muttered under his breath as he looked back at France's pasty white face and England's angry, confused look.

France put his head on England's back and nuzzled him, "Ah mon cher! Do not let me fall."

"You bloody poof! Man up will you!" England said. Although he did have some consternation, despite using this mode of transportation before.

And then he felt an odd vibrating sensation in the region of his lower lumbar region, somewhere close to his left buttock. "Jesus Christ on a sunbed, France! What in God's name are you doing, you pervert?"

"Ah, mon phone. Eet eez vibrating!" France said and took it out of his pocket, clinging to England with the other arm. "I have a text message!"

"Well thank God for that!"

"Eet eez your next date, mon ami."

"Date?!" England almost fell off the dragon.

"Oui!" France sounded excited. "Ah you will adore zis one."

"Oh no…" England moaned. He was really looking forward to an evening in front of the television with his slippers and Coronation Street. His plans did not involve another excruciatingly bad date where he ended the evening passed out or in a jail cell.


	20. A Troika made for Two

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 20 - A Troika made for Two**

The date was going okay, at least in terms of England's usual dates, that is until Ukraine took off her cardigan and England had said the word 'boobs' for the sixth time. This sixth time was obviously at the limit of Miss Ukraine's patience and she punched him. Hard.

Earlier…

"Right, I'm going out," England told them. He straightened his tie and attempted to brush his hair. Even his eyebrows were getting a combing.

'Them' were, unfortunately in England's eyes, France, America, Spain (still holding a briefcase) and, although he had banned them from setting foot in his house ever again, Prussia and Denmark.

He and France had been dropped - literally dropped - by China and his dragon. Who had then flown off, China shouting as he went, "Goodbye Arthur! Try to lighten up!"

America, Spain, Prussia and Denmark had stumbled through the door just after England had put on the kettle. (Switched it on, that is, not actually put it on his head - he'd had to explain this over and over to France.)

"We went to the wrong police station!" America yelled. He sounded proud.

"You're an idiot," England told him.

"Hey! Where'd Pierre go?" America asked his fellow Nations.

They all shrugged and slouched in after him.

"You can all get out. Especially you Prussia. And you Denmark."

They ignored him. "Do you have any beer?"

"He drinks nozing else! He is an alcoholic. Zere is no wine. He has no refinement at all," France said.

"You can all get out," England said.

"Why are you brushing your hair?" America asked. "And did you brush your eyebrows?"

"Unlike you lot, I like to make an effort," England said pompously.

"You look like a girl," Prussia said.

"He has a date!" France told them.

"Not with Belgium?!" Spain looked as if he were going to cry.

"You lot just shut up!" England almost shrieked.

"I found beer!" Denmark said, his head stuck under the sink cupboard. "He hides it under here!" he banged his head as he pulled himself back out, holding aloft three cans in triumph.

"Where is Pierre? Did he not go to rescue moi?" France asked.

"You mean gay French dude?" America asked.

"Oui."

"He did a runner."

"So who's the unlucky girl, England?" Prussia asked, deftly catching the can of beer that Denmark threw at him.

"I don't know." England sounded worried.

"She eez… ah.. She is gorgeous…" France said, leering. He turned back to America, "What did you do to mon minion?"

"I bet he's a dude," Prussia concluded.

"Who? Pierre?" America asked, confused.

"Nah, England's date."

"But it's not Belgium?" Spain asked again.

France shook his head and patted Spain on the bottom, "Non, mon ami. Do not worry." He then turned to America, "What did you do to Pierre?"

"He did a runner!"

* * *

So England had hurried out, giving America, Prussia, Denmark, France and Spain (the Awesome and Bad Touch Trios collectively) what he hoped was a disapproving glare.

He ignored the sounds of hilarious laughter as he closed the garden gate. And then realised he'd forgotten to ask France exactly where he was supposed to be going…

And so he found himself in a Russian tea room in a posh part of London that he never usually frequented. He looked around nervously and hoped to God that he wasn't meeting Belarus.

He wasn't.

"Arthur! Yoohoo!" Ukraine stood up and waved at him. Vigorously.

Miss Ukraine's rather large chest threatened to burst out of its confines of an unfortunately thin blouse and a wool cardigan. It didn't though.

"Oh. Right." England walked over, trying to look like a man of the world. Like he often met large-chested women in Russian tea rooms. He didn't. This was worth missing Coronation Street for.

"Honey vodka and some nice cake?" Ukraine asked him.

"Erm no alcohol for me, Miss er…"

"Call me Katya."

"Miss er Katya."

"No, just Katya."

"Okay… no alcohol. I've had a little too much er…" England was distracted. Largely by the movement of Miss Ukraine's chest area.

"I've heard all about you this week, England. Can I call you Arthur?"

"Seeing as that's my name, yes."

"Oh, you are funny!" Katya reached across and touched his arm. Which made England blush and jump slightly.

"Oh, I say!" England said.

A very large, grim-faced Russian waiter approached and bowed respectfully to Ukraine. She gave an expansive order in quick, incomprehensible (to England) Russian.

She then turned back to England after summarily dismissing the man, who slouched off as if he were going to the gallows. "I've heard all about you. I saw your Youtube video! It was so funny!"

"That wasn't my video!"

"Oh." Ukraine actually looked disappointed. Perhaps she thought she was dating a Youtube star.

England absentmindedly folded and refolded the napkins - noting with approval that they were proper napkins. He quite liked Miss Ukraine. In fact, he'd always had a little crush on her. It wasn't for nothing that his codename in the War had been Peter Pan and hers was Wendy. (All chosen by him, France, Russia and America.) He was trying hard not to look at her expansive chest area. Large-chested women always made him nervous.

"And you're such a ladies' man!" Ukraine said, laughing.

"What? No I'm not!" England said quickly.

"Oh come on! Hungary told me about your date with her. And then Belgium. Honestly, Arthur…"

England blushed at her usage of his human name.

"…and then Liechtenstein. Switzerland was really annoyed apparently. He had to escort Lily as he didn't trust you."

England was appalled. "What?!" he yelled.

The big Russian waiter slouched back and placed a very welcome teapot on the table with china cups.

Ukraine glared at England. "Don't shout at me, young Arthur," she admonished. She sounded like a schoolmistress.

England was reminded as to why Ukraine frequently intimidated the most intimidating Nation of them all - Russia. Poor Russia, England thought - being bullied by his two sisters.

"And don't smirk at me, Arthur," Ukraine told him.

England hurriedly straightened his face into an impassive look. "Well this is nice," he said.

"So, tell me the latest," Ukraine said. Her elbows resting on the table, she leaned across as she poured them both a cup of tea.

"Is that Yorkshire tea?"

"We're in a Russian tea house. What do you think?"

"No?"

"Correct. Tell me the latest gossip, Arthur."

"Well… er… Prussia and Denmark are still driving their cab. In a fashion. America has moved back in…"

"Is France living with you?"

"We're not a couple!" England exclaimed and took a sip of tea. It wasn't PG Tips or Yorkshire Tea, or even Earl Grey and so he grimaced. He covered this up by dabbing his mouth with the napkin.

"Okay," Ukraine raised an eyebrow. "France is a degenerate and a louche. I think he's a bad influence on the younger nations."

"Yes well…"

Ukraine leaned closer in, "So why isn't he here?"

"What?"

"Well, I thought you might have brought him!"

"Why? We're not a couple!" Arthur said again. And wondered how many times he was going to have to say it before someone believed him.

"Yes, but I'll say this for Francis. He is a laugh!"

England felt totally aggrieved at this. Obviously, he was not a 'laugh'. So he sulked a bit. Until Miss Ukraine took off her cardigan.

"Gosh I'm so hot!" Ukraine told him and smiled charmingly at the waiter who brought them their food.

England was lost for words and desperately trying not to look at her chest area. 'Keep looking at her face… keep looking at her face…' he thought to himself.

"Are you okay, Arthur?"

"Yes," Arthur said, looking at her straight in the eyes. He looked down at his dish. It was soup. It seemed fairly innocuous and so he tentatively gave it a try. Ukraine watched him, fairly grinning at him.

"It's cold! Waiter!" he called.

"Okroshka, Arthur," Ukraine said.

"It bloody well is. Shall I make a complaint?" he said.

"No, Arthur. It's Okroshka. It's a cold soup."

"Well that's just plain odd!"

Ukraine raised an eyebrow and looked at him, shaking her head.

The waiter however had already slouched across and looked enquiringly at England. England wondered why all Russians seemed so big. And grim-looking. England smiled apologetically. "So sorry."

The Russian waiter bowed low to Ukraine as if she were a queen, glared at England and slouched away again.

"Well I didn't bring Francis as I thought this was a erm… date…" England said tentatively.

Ukraine looked surprised. Looked as if she were going to laugh. Didn't. And then smiled. "Oh da."

"Besides he's a complete scoundrel. He's completely ruined my life! I dread to think what he's doing right at this minute. In my own house as well."

"Yes well…" Ukraine was thinking that it was true what Hungary and Poland had told her - that England was obsessed with France.

* * *

Over at England's house…

"Ah zis is so boring, I wonder how Angleterre is getting on." France said. He had his feet propped on a stool and Spain was painting his toenails for him. "Mind ze poorly foot, mon cher."

"You're such a gay dude," Prussia told him.

Denmark was working his way through the contents of England's larder and making himself a 'Scooby sandwich'. This involved putting all the said contents between two slices of bread.

"Does anyone want to play COD with me?" America asked.

"Does it involve taking off clothes?" France replied, looking up.

"Jesus, no!"

"Zen non."

"Does that mean no?"

"It means non."

"Who's the poor chick England's with tonight then?" Prussia asked.

"Is it Belarus again?" Denmark asked.

"Don't say that name!" Prussia said, shivering. "It makes me shiver."

"What? Belarus?"

Prussia shivered, "Oooh there it goes again…"

"Belarus?"

"Do it again…"

"Belarus…?"

"Oh it's horrible… do it again…" Prussia said again.

"Belarus…?"

France interrupted them, "Eet eez not Belarus."

"Oooh…" Prussia shivered again. He looked as if he were enjoying himself.

"Belgium?" Spain asked.

"Non, mon ami. I told you."

"That doesn't give quite the same effect," Prussia said.

"China?" Denmark yelled.

"Non, China is not a girl."

"China's not a chick, dude," Prussia said and hit Denmark around the head with a spoon.

"Is it a proper chick then?" America yelled from the lounge where he had recommenced his video game playing.

"Oui!" France replied. "A leetle more polish on zat leetle toe zere, mon cher," France told Spain.

"Seychelles?" Denmark asked.

"She would not come all zis way just for a date avec Arthur." France said.

"True."

"She wouldn't go to the end of the road for a date with Arthur," Prussia observed.

"Who then?" Spain asked, his tongue stuck out in concentration.

"I zink she would go to ze end of ze road for a date with moi," France said.

"Kesese! Get away!" Prussia laughed.

"No, I mean who is it?" Spain asked.

"Miss Ukraine!" France said triumphantly.

There was silence. Spain, a step behind everyone else, was still painting France's toenails. He then looked up at everyone frozen in place and realised and then gasped.

And then the questions started:

"Are you trying to get England killed?"

"Man! Russia is really protective over his sisters!"

"Ukraine is a bit scary."

"Belarus is married to England isn't she?"

"Belarus is going to kill you."

"Ukraine will smother him with her huge boobs."

Even America had joined in: "Dude Artie doesn't stand a chance! He has no idea what to do with women with big chests!"

"And you do?"

"Well no…"

"You zink he will be having a problem?" France asked.

"Dude, I think yer lost yer boyfriend," Prussia advised.

America came in, waving his game controller at France, "If anything happens to dude Artie, if he gets lost in Miss Ukraine's chest, then you will answer to me."

"What, in the name of King Louis, are you wearing?" France asked.

America looked down at himself. "It's my Wookie onesie."

France looked utterly appalled. "Eet eez terrible! Eet eez a crime against fashion!"

"It's Star Wars, dude!" America said, dumbfounded.

"Pfft! Americans have no sense of style," France snorted.

"So Arthur Teabags Kirkland and Miss Double D, eh?" Prussia looked ecstatic.

"Miss Double D?" America asked innocently.

"Never mind…"

* * *

England and Ukraine were now on the main course and England was finding it harder and harder to concentrate.

"This is nice boobs.. I mean breasts… I mean oh God… I mean Borscht…" England was sweating now.

Ukraine narrowed her eyes at him.

"Did I say it properly?" he said, looking at her pointedly in the eyes.

"Da," she said shortly.

They ate in silence, occasionally breaking bread, that to England's perturbation, was black.

He wanted to ask if it was supposed to be that colour. But didn't. He was also aware that in the corner of the restaurant was a familiar, big, beige-blond haired man hiding behind a copy of Pravda but who occasionally lowered the newspaper to glare at him.

This was not good, England thought.

He only hoped he could get out alive or at the very least not arrested.

"So, are you in London for very long?" England asked.

"I'm meeting Pol and Hungary later," Ukraine said. "And then we're all off to Benidorm for a holiday!"

England shuddered. He was so glad he was not going anywhere within 100 miles of the Spanish city. He felt a little sorry for Antonio if he was hosting them. He also wondered how on earth they got away with doing so little paperwork as Nations. Then he realised he was thinking like Germany.

"Do you want to dance?" Ukraine asked him.

England was still digesting both the borscht and the idea that the three bitchiest Nations would be gossiping about him later, when he realised that there was some kind of Russian folk music going on. Somebody was playing a balalaika (although England had no idea its name) and that Ukraine was holding out her hand as if she were the man and he were the woman. He swallowed some vodka quickly, almost choked and stood up.

"I can't really da…" he began to say but didn't get to finish as he was spun around the tiniest dance floor known to civilisation.

The big beige-blond haired man was now playing the balalaika and glaring at him.

"Oh hello Russia…" England said as he whizzed past.

Russia said nothing but looked on grimly.

"Your sister is very…" he began to say as he was spun past him again. They were dancing in a circle and everytime he approached Russia he attempted to shrug apologetically and say something but was flung back around.

"I can only really waltz!" he tried to say to Ukraine.

Ukraine ignored him. The dance went faster and faster. The other dancers - only around six in all appeared to be all women. England decided he must have wandered into some kind of Russian afternoon tea party ritual. It was all very odd.

Unfortunately, the dance was very energetic and physics was taking its toll on Ukraine's undergarments. Fighting a losing battle anyway, the thin fabric of her blouse was not holding up well and one button popped and hit the grim waiter in the eye.

"Oh no! That man got hit by a boob. I mean… er a button…"

"What?"

"Boob!" England blurted out as another button pinged across the room.

Ukraine, glowing not sweating, as a lady should be, halted in her dancing and waved at Russia to stop playing. He grunted something at her. He didn't look happy at all.

"Vanya do you have your sewing kit with you?" she called.

England put his hand in his pocket to pull out his handkerchief to mop his brow and pulled out a pair of pink ladies' knickers. "Oh boob! I mean bollocks! Bugger!"

"Arthur!"

And that's when Ukraine punched him.

She could really go in for heavyweight boxing champion, England thought dozily as he hit the floor.

"I cansh exshplain… zese.. I mean these are France's pants."

"You're weird, Arthur," Ukraine said, looking down at him. Which was an even more uncomfortable viewpoint - at least from England's position on the floor.

"Here is a sewing needle and thread, sestra," Russia said coming up. He stared at England, "I don't like you."

England got up shakily and staggered to their table. His nose was bleeding and his head hurt. It could have been worse. So much worse.

"Aren't you going to thank me?" Ukraine said as she sat down, taking a big gulp of vodka.

England, his head forward, trying to staunch the bleeding with an item of ladies underwear, was not feeling very thankful. He just squinted at her.

"If I hadn't hit you then Vanya would have."

"Well thanks awfully. I really don't know how I can repay you," England mumbled.

"I knew you'd understand." The sarcasm was obviously lost on Ukraine.

But a shadow loomed over them. "You were looking at my sestra's tracts of land."

England had no idea what he meant but he looked up, his head pounding, "I assure you I was not looking at Miss Ukraine's tracts of land."

Russia did not look convinced, despite Ukraine trying to mollify him (whilst trying to stitch buttons back on her blouse at the same time) and just as Russia grabbed England and lifted him up no doubt to pound him into the ground, help came from a very unexpected source.

"Brother! Leave Arthur alone!"

"Aaaargh!" Russia spun round to face his younger sister.

His other sister nodded, "Yes Vanya. I can take care of myself."

"Are you stalking me?" England asked Belarus.

Belarus thought about this, looked at her brother who was trying to sneak away - although how a six foot tall Russian could 'sneak' anywhere was beside the point. "Yes, yes, that's what I was doing outside the tea room, with my binoculars and my night vision goggles…" Belarus said quickly.

Ukraine crossed her arms and looked at her little sister. "I've told you before about stalking people, Natty."

"Yes yes…" Belarus turned to see her 'dear brother' loping out of the door. "Gotta go."

"She's not been much of a wife, has she?" Ukraine said sadly. "I was really hoping to get to know you as a brother-in-law."

"We're not married."

Ukraine didn't seem to be listening, "I mean I know you married my sestra as a cover for your love for France." She put a hand on his shoulder. "It's not illegal now you know."

"We're not a bloody couple!" England yelled, pulling the bloody piece of pink lace from his nose. "Doesn't anyone have any proper handkerchiefs in this place?"

"Mon cher! Arthur!" France hobbled in and threw a box of tissues at his head.

"We're here to rescue you, dude!" America yelled. England wondered vaguely why the American was dressed in what the 'boy' called a 'onesie'.

"To save you from a Russian knitting club!" Denmark added, nonsensically.

"Shut up about that," Prussia muttered to him under his breath.

"Oh God…" England hid his head in his hands.


	21. Men in Black

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 21 - Men in Black**

"Aren't you going to thank us for saving you?" America yelled in England's face.

England looked around at them. "You only turned up to see if I'd gotten beaten up or arrested."

"We saved your ass, man!" America yelled. "Now, let's move out!" he motioned outside as if they were on a military mission.

"I hope we didn't come in their bloody taxi cab," England said, nodding at Denmark and Prussia.

France shook his head, "We arrived in young Alfred's giant car." France looked the American up and down, "I zink he is trying to compensate for somezing…"

America was oblivious, "Let's do this, men!" he yelled and strode off to his 'Hummer'.

England, holding his nose with a tissue, silently thanking France for actually bringing the tissues (how did the blighter know?) and stumbling after the idiots, cringed.

"Hey! Let's go to the pub!" Denmark yelled.

"I don't zink you should go anywhere, mon ami. You look drunk," France said.

Denmark ignored him, "Hey England dude? Do you know any good pubs?"

"Ja!" Prussia yelled.

"Shouldn't you two be working?" England asked.

Prussia nodded.

"Where did you get the food for that sandwich?" England asked suspiciously.

Denmark hurriedly stuffed the rest of his 'Scooby sandwich' into his mouth.

"Questions questions… some people are just too happy shoving their nose in other people's business!" Prussia admonished.

Two large men in black suits, wearing sunglasses suddenly stepped out of the shadows in front of the Nations.

"Prussia, Denmark, America, England, France and Spain?" they asked.

Prussia grabbed Denmark and slid away, "Right, bye then!" he called as he hurried off down the street. He knew secret service when he saw them.

The others were slower. Much slower.

"Who's asking?" France said suspiciously.

England looked them up and down, "Who are you?"

"CIA, Sir."

France snorted, "Ha! You call him 'Sir'? Nobody calls him 'sir'. CIA… I zay zat you are really fancy dress people!"

England glared at him, "Shut up, France. Why shouldn't they call me 'Sir'? However," he turned back to the men, "My idiot friend is correct. Why should we believe that you are indeed CIA?"

The larger of the two gave England his confiscated phone, "I believe you were missing this, Sir."

"Well… thank you… I think…" England wasn't really sure he actually wanted his phone back.

"And we talked to the Metropolitan police so you're no longer wanted for blowing a hole in their cell wall," the man told England.

"I bet _I_ am still wanted," France winked.

"I didn't do that! That was China's dragon!" England protested.

"Of course, Sir."

England could not see the man's expression behind those sunglasses. He was glad.

America yelled from his 'Hummer'. "Yo dudes! I'm waiting!"

"Lieutenant-Colonel Alfred F Jones?" the man asked.

"Yo?"

"We've come to take you home, Sir!" the 'CIA' said.

"Aw man!"

* * *

England, France and the two CIA men found themselves squashed in the back of the 'Hummer'. America was driving. Spain had found himself suddenly being 'requisitioned' by Ukraine to take her 'forthwith' to Benidorm. The Spaniard had looked very worried about this as he was dragged away by the Ukrainian.

"I still zay zat zay are fancy dress people," France muttered to England as if this was a new Nationality.

"Shut up, Francy. I cannot believe that Alfred is a bloody Lieutenant-Colonel!"

"Our Nation is a senior officer in the US Air Force, Sir," the CIA man told England. The other one had not spoken a word.

"Don't bloody 'sir' me. And I was talking to my friend here," England said sniffily. "Oh my God, France will you bloody well take your hands off that man's knee?"

"J'adore a man in a suit!"

"I ain't going back to DC!" America told them. For the sixth time.

"Sir, you're needed back in your country."

"Dear Lord!" England shook his head and looked out of the window. He couldn't believe he lived in a world where America was called 'Sir'.

"I tell yer. It's nothing to do with me. I didn't even vote!"

"Sir…"

"Honestly, man!"

"Sir… Mr Obama has assured you that you can keep your basement room in the White House."

"I'm staying with Artie dude and his French gay boyfriend."

"Oui!"

"Sir, take your hand off my knee," the other CIA man finally said. It was the first time England had heard him speak.

France removed it.

"We are not a couple!" England yelled.

"You staying here with these…" here the CIA looked at England and France, "… people…" (he said 'people' as if they were the worst degenerates ever) "… is a grave security risk."

"Too right…" England nodded.

"I don't care. Dude Artie is my main man!"

"Then we will have to secure the area," the first CIA man said.

"Oh God." England groaned. More bloody Americans.

"Oh good…" France's eyes gleamed.

The CIA man muttered into his radio, "Operation Lassie Come Home is cancelled. Operation Mary Poppins is go go go."

"My life is over…" England muttered.

* * *

Later…

The CIA men were indeed "securing the area". They had consumed all England's 'nice' coffee. Done some shopping. Placed a security cordon around the back garden and were now re-laying England's ruined bathroom floor that Russia had destroyed with his failed plumbing excursion.

England tried to ignore them all. The Times crossword was now attracting his full attention.

He jumped when his phone made a strange beeping noise, and snapped, throwing the "over-complicated bloody ridiculous new-fangled gadget" (as he had termed it) onto the kitchen table in disgust. "And what, in the name of Yorkshire pudding, is this thing doing now? There's no new messages, nobody is calling me, it's fully charged, so why? Am I going bloody mad?!"

France picked the mobile up and inspected it. "Ah mon Angleterre, you have a new voicemail message… ah yes," France somehow managed to make this sound dirty, wiggling his eyebrows at Arthur. "Perhaps eet eez the lovely Katya calling for another date, non?"

"Well I highly doubt that," Arthur said, touching his face on reflex and wincing. He still felt a bit sore from when she had punched him. "It's probably bloody Germany yelling again or some sodding idiot thinking I'm Austria. Just delete it."

"Ze phone says eet eez from Finland, mon ami," France said. "He does not usually call you, non? I will play it!"

He did so. "Hello you've reached… oh bloody hell is this thing recording… oh yes. Hello you've reached the phonebox… no wait it's not a phonebox… damn… the phone of Arthur Kirkland - France will you bloody well put your pants back on - erm yes. I cannot answer the phone right now, please leave a message after the *BEEP* Arthur? This is Finland calling… Hmm I thought this was Austria's number… oh well. I do have something I need to talk to you about as well. Well we haven't heard from you about whether you can have Peter this weekend so I'm assuming you don't have an RAF training course like last month… or a poetry retreat like the other month… and I'm guessing your sick mother is better? Well in any case, unless I hear back from you, me and Ber will be at your house on Friday at 9 pm to drop off Peter. This Friday, that is. Well goodbye Arthur, I hope yourself and France are doing well! *click*"

France looked at Arthur with visible trepidation. Arthur felt like he was about to have an aneurysm, or possibly was in the middle of one. "Finland… Peter… drop off… Friday… Ber… what."

"Arthur, I think you need a cup of tea," France said - probably the most helpful thing he had said while living in this house. He skidded out and returned with a cup of Earl Grey.

England downed the cup in one go. "It's bloody… this is your fault!"

France pointed at himself and said, outraged, "Moi? But mon Angleterre, what did I do?"

"Well I don't bloody know specifically, but I'm sure somehow or another you are to blame. I mean I always come up with an excuse not to bloody have Peter the third weekend of the month, but you and your matchmaking and your general bloody idiocy have distracted me and now I've got to spend time with my bloody son… bugger."

"But 'ow is zat my fault? I didn't know you had leetle Peter one weekend a month! I 'ave never seen him here! He lives with Berwald and Tino," France argued.

"No one knows because he doesn't bloody come here! He hasn't in two years! I always make something up… some training weekend or a family emergency or some such. Of course sometimes things do happen… like that time bloody America was in hospital after a motorcycle accident and I got on a ten hour flight to sodding California and it turned out he'd stubbed his toe." England seethed a bit at the memory; he'd skidded into the hospital room with a massive overnight bag, a cup of terrible coffee and a hangover, seen America with his leg in a cast, gone through the five stages of grief, and then been told that the idiot hadn't even broken a bone.

"Zen why do you have zis deal if you do not want to see him? He is your son, Angleterre," France said, admonishing.

"It's part of the buggering child support thing. It says I'm entitled to have custody one weekend a month… nobody bloody asked me if I wanted to have custody, though. The bloody kid doesn't even like me. He never shuts up about when I left him in the war… I mean was that my fault?"

"Oui," France said.

"Oh bloody hell."

"Arthur," France said. England sat up a bit at this; France actually sounded like he was being serious for once. "Ze boy needs his father. You are it… though you are not ze best for the job. Zo you need to step up."

"He's bloody fifty years old. He's hardly a 'boy'," Arthur protested.

"You call l'Amerique a boy, Angleterre, and he is now over two centuries old! So big…" France pointed out, a bit creepily. "And as you say, it 'as been fifty years since leetle Peter declared independence. Don't you think eet eez time to make amends?"

"Well…" Arthur did feel guilty for rejecting Peter, that much he had to admit. He'd handed him over to Finland and Sweden, paying a child support sum to them, because he'd thought they would do a better job of raising a child than him. He'd failed with a lot of his colonies and they now hated him, so he'd assumed Peter would be better off without him. But… he should be in Peter's life. He knew this. "I suppose you're right."

"So you will let Tino and Berwald drop Peter off on Friday at 9 pm?" France asked.

"…Yes. I suppose I will."

"Tres bien! Because eet eez Friday, and eet eez ten to eight!"

"What." Arthur sat for a couple of moments, blinking, before something spurred him to action. He snatched his phone from where it still lay on the floor, hoping France was playing a cruel joke on him. He was not. It was, indeed, Friday, and 7.50pm. "Oh. It is."

"But zis is good, non? Your son will be here soon! Ah, it will be a beautiful reunion…" France went off into a reverie.

"Idiot!" England flicked France on the forehead. "I'm not bloody prepared for this! I mean… I suppose I can't turn the boy away now, but where in the name of cauliflower is he supposed to sleep? You and sodding America have commandeered my guest rooms!"

"You and I can double up, mon amour, and leetle Sealand can sleep in my bed," France said, grinning lasciviously at England.

"Fine, don't take this seriously. I'll go and bloody sort this out," England dashed out, tripping his way up the stairs and yelling America's name. The Nation in question stuck his head around his bedroom door.

"Dude!" America yelled ear-splittingly. "What's happening, man? Is there a fire? Can I finally do my fireman's lift? Aw man, I've been practising this since 1990, ya know when Gil accidentally set that crap bar on fire in Berlin… it was only a matter of time before it happened again, man."

"Well it's good that you're prepared, but I don't think that will be necessary," England said, putting a hand on Alfred's shoulder to calm him down. When he was sure 'the boy' wouldn't try to pick him up or backflip around the place, he explained the situation. "So, you see, I'm going to need this room. This isn't to say that you're not welcome-" (Alfred wasn't) "-I just have nowhere else to put Peter, and I suppose it really is time you went home and dealt with the fallout of that election result." (It was.)

"Aw, man!" But rather than looking upset, as Arthur had thought he would, Alfred seemed… excited? "Your dude son's coming here? Awesome!"

"Is it?"

"Hell yeah! We can have a sleepover and I can impart all my knowledge to the younger generation!"

"Your knowledge," England repeated slowly. "And what would that be?"

"Well, I don't know yet, but it'll be something heroic! I can teach him how to make corndogs, and how to play COD, and how to drive a kickass bumper truck, and… well you know, all the important stuff a Nation needs to know."

"Dear Lord."

"Yessir. So… where's the kid gonna sleep?"

Arthur facepalmed.

* * *

Eventually, Arthur found a battered-looking air mattress in his wardrobe, and put Alfred to work inflating it.

An hour later and 'the boy' was still at work with one CIA man stood watching him. Arthur was still not sure what the man thinking as the Nation was laid full-length on top of the mattress trying to blow air into the thing.

The door bell rang. Arthur wasn't quick enough on the stairs.

"Ah bonjour Monsieur Finlande et Monsieur Suède! And ze leetle Sealand of course! Did you 'ave a good flight? Oh you took ze ferry… I 'ope ze crossing was not too bumpy for you, honhonhon-" France was cut off here, as Arthur ran down the stairs and physically yanked him away from the door.

"So sorry about that," Arthur panted.

"Hmm…" Sweden said, looking the two Nations up and down. His facial expression didn't change much, but he seemed unimpressed.

"Arthur, are you alright? We've been hearing the strangest things you know… something about you groping Miss Ukraine, and marrying Belarus, and now you're living with France…" Finland looked concerned. "Now I don't mean to be judgemental, but if you keep causing such trouble I might have to put you on the naughty list."

Finland then motioned to the CIA man standing guard at the garden gate. "And who is that rude man? He called me ma'am and tried to frisk Ber. We had to show him our ID!"

"Yes well…"

"Sorry ma'am… security clearance," the CIA man said and saluted.

France seemed delighted by this. England gave him a dead arm. "Oh God, Finland… I'm sorry. Bloody CIA and no, I'm not bloody living with France! This is all just a temporary arrangement!" Arthur added the last bit, hoping against hope that they would all just eventually bugger off. As it was, more and more people seemed to be moving in with him.

"That's a very clinical way of putting it," Finland said. "I'm not sure we should be exposing Peter to such strangeness and debauchery what with France being here… what do you think, Ber?"

"Hmm," Sweden said.

"Well, if you think it's alright. Go on in, Peter, we'll be back to pick you up on Monday morning!" Finland practically flung Peter, complete with his sailor suit and a massive suitcase, into Arthur's townhouse and shut the door.

"Mom!" Sealand yelled at the closed door, outraged.

"Well I say, they were in a hurry!" Arthur exclaimed.

"Eet eez their first weekend alone in… two years, mon ami," France pointed out, winking at Arthur. "Zay are catching up on 'alone time', non?"

"Eww, that's not bloody it!" Sealand said, sounding remarkably like his father. "They just want to buy Wagon Wheels! That's what Dad was reminding Mom of!"

"You got that from 'hmm'?" Arthur asked. When Sealand just glared at him, he sighed. "Alfred!" He yelled. "Have you blown up that bloody bed yet?"

"Yessir! I feel a bit weird though man… think I need sugar."

"You just decanted the contents of your lungs into an air mattress, I'm not bloody surprised," Arthur said. "Wasn't there a bloody pump?"

"Ohhhh…"

Arthur, for the second time that day (and probably not the last), facepalmed. "Well, whatever. At least that's bloody done. It's time for supper anyway and then you can all go to bed."

"Yay! Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!" Alfred and Sealand both chanted in unison.

"I don't have any bloody ice cream!" England shouted over them.

There was a further half an hour of yelling, chanting and general swearing by England before he gave in. "I thought biscuits and a nice glass of warm milk would be better..." he muttered as they trudged outside. "We'll go to this MacDonalds place then…" he agreed to shut them all up.

They were about to jump in Alfred's huge 'idiotic' vehicle (England's words) to find said vehicle being towed away.

"Wait! Why?!" America wailed, chasing the tow-truck down the road. He gave up after only 50 metres, turned to the CIA agent and clutched the poor man's lapels. "Why has this happened? Why?"

"I believe the official stated that you had not paid your parking fines totalling £459.15, Sir."

"Oh right, yes." America straightened up, releasing the man.

England shook his head.

"Can I come as well?" France hobbled out. "Oh mon ami! What will we do? Ze mini is still wheel-clamped, Alfred's car is gone… does this mean…?"

"We can go in Jerk Dad England's antique heap?" Sealand pointed excitedly at the garage wherein lived England's only love - the Bentley.

England almost had a fit. "W…w…w…what?" he stuttered and stammered. A vein throbbed in his temple.

"Come on, dude! Don't have a kitten. Let's go in your antique crap thing," America yelled and clapped him on the shoulder.

"You won't all fit in!" England said triumphantly.

"Yeah we will!" Sealand said.

To England's horror they were all - America, France, Sealand and one of the CIA men, whom France had decided to name 'Maurice' (pronounced 'Mo-reece') heading towards the garage.

"No!" England stood in front of the garage doors, his arms spread out. "Not my car!"

America turned to the CIA man, "You know what to do, Maurice."

"That's not my name, Sir."

"Right."

'Maurice' bodily lifted England out of the way and picked the lock.

"You know it makes sense," America told England, patting his arm.

*To be continued*


	22. The Candy Man

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 22 - The Candy Man**

"I am never ever ever taking you lot to 'Maccy D's' again or whatever it is you call it!" England slammed his foot on the pedal and drove off. He said the words 'Maccy D'* as if it were an abomination.

It had all started almost normally - for Nations that is.

"One cheeseburger happy meal with extra fries, a large coke, two chicken McFlurries… no wait, two galaxy ripple McFlurries, whatever the hell they are… right okay, just a minute… A batman toy… a cappuccino, a black coffee two sugars and a tea. Can you ensure that the tea is Yorkshire tea? Yes with milk. Don't for heaven's sake put the milk in first. You don't? Oh jolly good. Thank you… how much? Are you out of your mind?"

This whole diatribe was by England as they sat at the drive-through with England shouting up at the bored looking girl behind the counter. She looked back at him, utterly bored and, it seemed to England, as if customer service was not really her chosen career.

Sealand sat beside England in the front passenger seat, having 'called shotgun'. The boy kept correcting England and then telling America, France and 'Maurice' in the back seat (which was covered in clingfilm) what they were ordering and that 'Jerk Dad England' didn't have a clue.

"Can I claim back the cost of that coffee from your superiors?" England asked 'Maurice' as he drove the Bentley forwards, paid the cash and waited for their purchases.

The black-suited, sunglasses-wearing CIA man didn't answer, he just stared at England.

"Francis you can bloody pay for your cappuccino at the very least?"

"Well, mon ami, I would quite like to try what you call a McFurry."

"It's a McFlurry, Francy-pants," America corrected him. "I might give you some of mine," he added, feeling generous.

"And you, America. Don't you have your Bank of America credit card?"

"No, dude. It was taken off me. I went to a Comic-Con and spent 4 grand on Star Wars memorabilia."

"What?!" England yelled, just as the cashier opened the sliding door to the serving hatch and gave him their food order.

"Star Wars, dude. I got some great stuff. A replica stormtrooper helmet, a Jedi cloak and a gun that Princess Leia actually touched. Well, might have. It was on set."

England passed the bag of food to Sealand and then the drinks…

"What is this?" he enquired as his 'tea' was passed to him.

"Tea."

"I'm sorry but this is not a cup of tea."

"Leave it, Artie!" Alfred shouted from the back.

"But it's not a cup of tea. It's a polystyrene abomination!"

France nodded, "Eet eez dreadful, mon cher. Look at zis cappuccino. I have had much better in ze back streets of Marseille." He winked at 'Maurice' sat next to him.

"I'm not accepting this!" England told the server behind the counter. The server shrugged.

"Sorry Sir but that's how we serve tea."

"It's a disgrace. I would like to speak to the manager."

"Aw man!" Alfred suddenly wailed.

"What's wrong, Alfred?"

"I didn't get Batman!"

"Can't we just go? This is stupid," Sealand said.

"I agree with the small gentleman in the front," 'Maurice' said. "We are conspicuous and that is a security issue."

It was the most 'Maurice' had said - apart from telling France to stop touching him. "I'm not bothered about bloody security. What on earth do you think is going to happen? We're at a MacDonalds in bloody Finchley. I can't see any so-called security issues," England said, exasperated. He looked at his polystyrene cup with suspicion. If it were anything like the muck he'd consumed at the hospital then he was definitely going to have a bad experience.

"I think you make these names up," America said, stuffing his face with a cheeseburger.

Behind them, cars were pulling up and an impatient van driver tooted his horn and made a rude gesture that basically told England to move his vehicle or something unpleasant would befall him.

"Can you at least give me a slice of lemon to make it drinkable?" England asked the boy behind the counter.

The boy stared at him as if England had just landed in an alien spacecraft. "Next customer, please," he said flatly.

"Well. I'm going to write a letter of complaint to your managing director! Mr Ronald MacDonald himself!"

Someone banged on the Bentley's roof, "Oi! You gonna move or what, you posh git?"

It was the van driver behind them.

He was no longer behind them, he was stood glaring at England.

England quickly wound up his window and then glared back.

"Cool! Jerk Dad England getting into a fight!" Sealand said, eating his 'McFlurry' happily. "This is ace!"

England quickly drove off. "If any of you, and that includes you, Mr CIA man…"

"Maurice…" France purred seductively.

'Maurice' shuffled nervously.

"…Any of you get so much as a crumb on my upholstery then you are all dead!" England yelled.

"Jeez, calm down dude. You're a total buzzkill!"

* * *

And so England pulled into the driveway. He was dismayed as he did so. For several reasons. There was a dragon sat in his back garden, its huge head hanging over the back garden gate looking morose. Also, there was a horse stood next to the dragon and if these new inhabitants making his home look like a zoo weren't enough, there was Denmark and Prussia in his garage.

"Get out of my garage!" he yelled at them.

They looked up at him and then continued rummaging.

He spun round as Sealand said, "Uncle Den's a bit of a thief sometimes, Dad. Dad Swe says he's not allowed at our house on his own."

"What are you doing?" he asked them.

Prussia was putting some half-full paintpots, a rake, a spade and a hammer - all into a wheelbarrow.

"Where are you going with that?" he asked them.

"We've started our own DIY business," Den told him.

"You're bloody joking!"

"You've never supported us in our ventures!" Prussia told him and then turned to Denmark, "Come on, Den, let's go." And wheeled the implements down the drive.

"You're not just taking…" England followed them then stopped as America, France and 'Maurice' got out of the car. He did a double-take and then what followed was an apoplexy of rage such as France had not seen since France had debagged Richard I. Who, France recalled, had quite liked the experience. "What in God's right testicle, is that? What is wrong with you people? I asked you not to get anything on my upholstery and you've deliberately, deliberately, done just that!" he yelled and pointed. His face was bright red.

America stood to one side, slurping on his coke and watched. France hid behind America.

Prussia and Denmark ran down the road, weeving their way, the wheelbarrow's wheels squeaking.

"You are all degenerates! You have no morals. No respect for other people's vintage vehicles!" He continued to yell.

America shrugged. "What's he saying?" he whispered to Sealand.

"Dad's mad," Sealand said simply.

"Right!" England shoved them all into the house. 'Maurice' followed, casually putting a hand on England's arm when England grabbed America.

* * *

"Who was it?" England demanded.

"What?" France asked.

"You! I bet it was you! I know you've always hated me but this is despicable!" England yelled.

"Ice cream on the seat…" America said to Sealand as an aside.

"I did not have a McFurry, mon cher!" France whined.

"You!" England spun round to glare at America.

'Maurice' stood in front of the American. "I have to respectfully ask you to step back, Mr Kirkland."

England was not happy that he was not called 'Sir'. "It's intolerable. You'll bloody clean it up!"

"This is just ace…" Sealand said with wide eyes. "Tell 'em, Jerk Dad."

"Get to bed, Sealand."

"Aww!" Sealand stomped upstairs, clattering his bag behind him.

"Well… this is just great but I'm off to bed as well," America said.

"We'll sort this out in the morning," England said.

"Mon ami, what are you going to do about your mini zoo?" France pointed out of the window.

The horse, which England recognised as being Hungary's horse, was looking back at them through the kitchen window.

"Zsa Zsa Gabor!" France exclaimed. "Ah… we should keep her."

"We're taking her back tomorrow. And the dragon. I just hope the dragon doesn't eat the bloody horse. Do dragons eat horses? Oh God, Hungary will kill me."

"Calm down, mon cher. Have a cup of tea."

"Tea! Oh my God that tea from MacFlurries was bloody awful! It was an affront to tea!"

"I don't have a bed!" came a shout from upstairs.

It was America. "Tell Sealand to get out of the bed and let me have it! I'm older!"

"What happened to your airbed?" England called up.

There was a silence. "It won't blow up."

"There is a puncture in it, Sir." The CIA man said.

"Which one is he?" England asked France. "They look the bloody same."

"Zat is Renee, mon cher." France said camply.

"Really?"

"Oui."

"Maurice and Renee…" (England pronounced it Morris and Renny. France cringed.)

"Sleep on the bloody floor. I'll get you a bed tomorrow!" England called up.

"Can I have one of those racecar beds?"

"Whatever you like, just go to bloody sleep. Both of you!"

* * *

"Ah, eet eez like old times, you remember? When we brought up Alfred together?" France said, switching on the kettle, his face glowing.

"We are not a couple!"

"Mais oui…" France said, handing England a mug of hot cocoa.

England sipped it. "And what's all this about me being on Mytube or something?"

"I do not know. I blame Alfred for zis. I do not know how eet works."

"Hmmm…" England didn't believe him. He was still quite horrified by several things. Firstly, the fact that America had two CIA men who called him 'Sir' and seemed to think the American could be in danger. Then there was that bloody alien, Tony, who was a rude bugger. England had no idea where he'd gone to. Then there was the make-shift zoo in his back garden.

"Zoo!" he suddenly said, jumping up.

"What?"

"That horse! We have to get it in the garage before Mr Ping eats her. Hungary will bloody kill me!" England said, panicking.

"I will aidez-vous, mon ami," France said soothingly.

They went outside, only to find Mr Ping and 'Zsa Zsa Gabor' snuggled up. Mr Ping did not look happy when England attempted to lead the horse away.

"Oh well…"

"Eet eez l'amor!"

"Oh God! I'm going to bed." England trudged upstairs with his cocoa. He was alarmed to find France hopping up the stairs behind him. "What are you doing?"

"Going to bed!"

"Not with me, you're not. Go sleep on the bloody sofa!"

"But mon ami…"

England stopped outside America/Sealand's bedroom door. 'Maurice' or 'Renee' was stood, arms crossed in front of it. England could hear whispers and laughter from inside. "Get to sleep, you two!" he yelled.

America suddenly flung open the door, "You can't tell me what to do, can he, Maurice?" America asked. He stood there in his Superman pyjamas and waved a lightsabre at England (America, that is, not the CIA man. A CIA man dressed in Superman pyjamas would be very weird.)

"No, Sir."

"What's your wifi code?" America asked England.

"You don't need it, you're going to sleep."

"I need to do… stuff… on my ipad."

"Switch off your ipid, ipud, whatever it's called and get some sleep!"

"I wanted to show Sealand how to be a successful military nation who kicks ass."

"Get to bed!" England spun round and headed for his own bedroom.

What he found there made him head back out, slamming the door and running back down the stairs.

The rose petals on the bed, the champagne cooling in an ice bucket (where on earth had France got an ice bucket from?), the frankly horrid satin sheets and lastly, France sprawled on the bed in what the Frenchman obviously thought was a seductive pose.

England wrapped himself up in his Laura Ashley throw and attempted to sleep on the sofa. He kept a cricket bat in close proximity just in case…

* * *

Next morning…

England was dreaming about a mystical king, buried beneath Glastonbury Tor who would one day return when Britain needed him…He knelt at the moist earth…"Arthur Arthur you're needed…" and then felt a strange presence behind him, prodding him.

"Honhonhon…"

"Bloody France!" England yelled, and leapt off the sofa suddenly wide awake. It was a just a dream…

"Excuse me, but there is a German gentleman at the door." A strange voice said.

England almost screamed. His hair wild and stuck up on end, clutching his cricket bat. "I could have killed you!" he yelled.

The CIA man stared at him. The man was still wearing a dark suit and sunglasses and appeared to be perfectly groomed. England wondered if it was 'Maurice' or 'Renee' or whether somehow another one had been flown in. England also noted that the man had ceased addressing him as 'Sir'.

England dropped the bat. "What German?"

"At the door."

"I know that."

The CIA man said nothing. The man emanated disdain.

England headed for the door, hesitated as he caught a glance of himself in the hallway mirror. He was unshaven. His eyes bloodshot, his hair worse than he'd ever seen it, his eyebrows sprouted like little caterpillars, he had forgotten he was still wearing France's t-shirt that had some obscenity on it (in French) and too-tight jeans. The only thing he wore that actually belonged to him was his tartan slippers.

He opened the door, attempting to flatten his hair as he did so.

"Ah Germany…" he said with a sense of impending doom.

"Ja. It is me. My lawyer is not here. He is detained elsewhere on an important case…"

"Spain is actually in Benidorm with Ukraine, Hungary and Belgium, I believe. Poor chap," England told him.

"Well…"

England made him stand at the door and tried to peer round him to see if the dragon and the horse were still there. He wasn't sure if he was relieved when he found they'd gone.

"Can I come in? And why are you looking behind me?" Germany looked around suspiciously. "I hope you do not have France behind me ready to de-trouser me? I'm not falling for that again."

"That was in the War!" England said. "I wouldn't do that now!"

Germany did not look happy nevertheless and pushed past England.

"Sir, I need to see your credentials," 'Maurice' or 'Renee' said to Germany.

"And who are you?" Germany asked.

England stood at the door, scratching his head, looking for the dragon and the horse. If he'd lost either he was going to get his arse kicked. Perhaps Hungary was actually in Benidorm. He really hoped so. But China could still kick his arse. "Bloody dragon shouldn't have been here anyway," he said.

The CIA man refused to say anything. He just stared at the German.

Germany was not one to be intimidated, "Have you been picking up strange men in bars, England?" he asked.

England looked around and glared at him, "I bloody well have not!"

"I'm the security detail for Mr Jones, Sir."

England winced when the CIA man called Germany 'Sir'.

"Ah. I see. I hope that you are going to do something about the depravity that's going on in this house. And do you know this man here," German pointed at England, "He destroyed my car. A Mercedes Benz. He and his wanton boyfriend called me here to help them and then dropped an antique desk on it!"

England looked around at Germany and then back outside, "Germany did you see a dragon go past with a horse when you came up the road?"

"I think you are mentally ill, England," Germany said, pulling out his ID cards to show the CIA man.

"Hey dudes, have you seen this? Dude Artie's on Youtube!" America came skidding into the kitchen. He waved around his 'ipud' (as England erroneously called it).

England sat with his chipped 'I heart Blackpool' mug and stared at the screen.

He appeared to be on some internet 'movie' thing which showed him in a fight with Spain. Spain was throwing tomatoes at him and the clip was dubbed 'Epic Tomato Fight In Italian Restaurant see Englishman shout at a Spaniard'. Then there was the reports of the earthquake in the region of the Chinese Restaurant - also appearing on this Mytube thingy which showed him stomping off. Thankfully it didn't show him and China flying through the air.

"My reputation is in tatters. I just hope Her Majesty doesn't see this," he said despondently.

"Jerk Dad! Didn't you say you were going to teach me to bake?" Sealand announced walking into the kitchen. Under his arm England spied a book entitled 'How to be the Awesomest Nation Ever - Apart From Me, by Gilbert Beilschmidt'.

Germany fingered his collar and looked extremely nervous. All his bluster about compensation gone. Even America went pale.

"Is there a problem, Sir?" asked 'Maurice' or 'Renee' (England still had not worked out which was which).

"Cupcakes!" America yelled and ran upstairs. It was the evacuation code and suddenly everyone was gone…

England smiled at Sealand, who stood beside him with wide eyes. "Just pass me that flour and I'll get the mixer."

 **Author's Notes:**

 ***Maccy D = the colloquial term for the fast food restaurant MacDonalds**


	23. Cake to Bake

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Warnings: Baking**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 23 - Cake to Bake**

"There!" England stood back and surveyed the scene. The cake stood on the cooling rack and seemed to smoke. He'd followed the recipe exactly. He turned to Sealand beside him. The boy looked as if he'd been in a war.

They were both covered in flour. As was the kitchen counter top. A mixing bowl stood derelict next to the cooker top. A lonely testament to England's baking.

A broken egg squelched underfoot as England stepped back. His tartan slipper skidded but he regained his balance.

"Wow." Sealand said in awe. "Is it supposed to glow like that?"

England frowned and consulted 'Mrs Beeton's Home Baking for the Frugal Housewife' again. "I'm really not sure."

"Is it edible?" Sealand breathed, his eyes wide. "You could take over the world with that though." The young principality was thinking hard. Images of him being crowned Emperor of the World atop the cake that destroyed the Nations. Although not killed them, no, just made them bow down to him. It was like the ultimate weapon. And it could be his.

Outside in the dragon-less garden, Germany, America, France and the two CIA men were hiding behind sandbags.

'Gaston' (France had decided that 'Renee' had been relieved by somebody else - how France could tell as the new CIA man looked exactly the same as the old CIA man, is anyone's guess) was radioing in. "We have a code Purple. Yes a code Purple. Can someone from the Special Branch instigate a containment field around Trafalgar Gardens, NE London?"

Germany was shaking his head, "Who allowed this? France?"

"Eet eez nozing to do avec moi, Allemagne. By ze way, your hair looks tres belle. Did you use zat new conditioner I sent you?"

"He's going to cause another Three Mile Island incident!"

"Eet eez not zat bad. He baked scones last week and I just threw zem in ze bin. He ate one!" France declared.

"You're braver than you look, Sir," 'Gaston' told him.

France puffed out his chest. "I am! But zese fools do not realise zis!"

America snorted and looked at him, "When he baked that Christmas cake last year you ran away!"

"Zat was different. Zat was sultanas!"

America shook his head.

The other CIA man (who France had now named as 'Phillippe') said, "Sir, we're still dealing with the effects of the scones that were dumped into the Atlantic by the Royal Navy during World War 2."

"This would never happen in my country," Germany said.

"No, that's because you don't allow England to bake in your country."

"Ja, we value our countryside as it is."

The Nations didn't complete their conversation as a series of white vans pulled up outside England's house and much to the neighbours' interest, a dozen or so people in full Hazmat suits leapt out and piled into the house.

A cordon was put up around Trafalgar Gardens. Plastic fencing was hastily put up around Number 69, the road was closed off citing 'chemical spill' and the neighbours were instructed that they were being evacuated.

The CIA men shoved America, France and Germany into a people carrier with blacked-out windows.

* * *

Meanwhile, England and Sealand were pulled out of the house and shoved, before either could protest, into a decontamination van.

Having been stripped, their clothes were incinerated, England and Sealand were then sprayed with disinfectant, tested for radiation and then handed paper boiler suits to wear.

England blinked in the sunlight, "Well… I think that was uncalled-for."

"Come on, dude! Get in the car!" America yelled.

England jumped into the people carrier, pulling Sealand with him. "What on earth is going on? Has there been a gas leak or something? I really don't understand."

"We're going to IKEA!" America yelled.

"IKEA?" England was still dizzy from his 'disinfecting'. He was still stunned to find he was wearing paper underwear. He had never in his life worn anything other than his own underwear. He felt odd.

"Step on it, driver!" America yelled. "Yeah! IKEA! You have to buy me a bed remember? I want a race-car bed!" America told England.

"You are such an dumkompf, England," Germany said, crossing his arms, as the military could be seen fighting with a growing, oozing cake - sponginess bulging against the windows.

"Wait a minute! Who's driving?" England asked, looking across at the two CIA men.

He soon knew as the vehicle skidded off and swerved over the pavement.

"France!" he yelled as he was flung into Germany's lap.

* * *

Five minutes later they all got out, looking rather green.

"Who in their right sodding mind let him… with a bloody broken foot… drive a bloody car? Are you all absolutely stark staring mad?" England yelled.

France hopped down, smiling sheepishly. "I did not hit anyzing," he protested.

He hadn't. But the car was abandoned/parked across the end of the road, abutting the junction and blocking a dual carriageway.

The two CIA men looked at one another and then at England, "The gentleman said he could drive."

"He has a sodding broken foot!" England yelled.

"I'll drive…" America said.

"Somebody needs to," Germany pointed out as a dozen cars and lorries queued up around them.

England shoved France back in the car, "Bloody idiot."

"I have not had my driving lesson!"

"No, and you're not likely to! You've got a broken bloody foot!"

"Ah mon foot," France sighed as he sat next to Sealand and observed his potted appendage.

Germany had evidently taken charge. They could hear America sat in the passenger seat next to him.

"Put your foot down, Germanland! You drive like an old lady!"

"Why didn't either of you two drive?" England asked the CIA men.

"We are security, Mr Kirkland. We have to have our weapons handy at all times."

"I want to know though, what on earth you expect to happen to that lunk here in London?"

One of them nodded pointedly at England's paper boilersuit and said nothing.

England sat back and decided to shut up. They appeared to be going around 20 miles per hour. Or as America shouted at Germany, "We're not in a funeral procession. Get your foot down!"

Sealand was amusing himself by practising his speeches. "Free ice cream for all! All candyfloss and ice cream to be free!"

"What on earth are you on about?" England asked him.

"When I run for POTUS, these are my election pledges."

England had no idea what a 'POTUS' was. "What?"

Sealand rolled his eyes. "When I run for Pres!"

England shook his head and leaned his head back against the headrest.

"You will be wonderful!" France said.

"Don't encourage the boy."

"I will build a giant bouncy castle in DC and make England pay for it!" Sealand announced.

France nodded.

"France, will you give me…" here Sealand was consulting his notebook. "…Alsace?"

France thought about this.

"You can't just ask Nations to give you bits of their territories!" England said, appalled. "I taught you better than that!"

"Non!" France said.

"How about…"

"No! Sealand! You can't do that." England shouted.

"Mr Russia said I could have South Ossetia."

England almost fell off his seat. "Did he?!"

"Ah ze boy has ambitions, non?"

"Yes, one day I'm going to have a piece of all the Nations and then I'll rule the world!" Sealand said and then laughed most evilly, England thought.

"You'll be grounded if I have anything to do with it," England muttered. The boy had clearly been indulged by Sweden and Finland.

Up in front America was still berating Germany. "You drive like a granny!" he yelled.

"You should abide by the legal speed limit," Germany countered.

"This is dead boring. Shove over and let me drive."

"There is no need for everything to descend into a car chase," Germany told him.

"There isn't?"

"Nein."

"Nine?"

England sighed. Listening to America attempt to communicate with his European neighbours was sometimes both frustrating and hilarious.

Often the American asked England to 'translate' as if they were speaking a foreign language.

Which in this case, they were. Germany muttered to himself in German.

"Wait a minute! Hold the phone!" America suddenly yelled.

"What phone?" everyone asked.

"I mean stop the car!" America shouted. "There's Pru and Den!" he waved at them as they retreated down the road. They looked as if they had committed a crime.

"They look as if they're up to something," America mused.

"Yes! Stealing my bloody tools! Get out and arrest them," England urged the CIA men.

'Gaston' and 'Philippe' glared at him. "We do not have the power of arrest here, Mr Kirkland."

"Really?" Sealand asked, his eyes wide. "But I bet you can assassinate anyone you want, can't you?"

"No, Sir."

England gritted his teeth. Why the bloody hell did they call everyone 'Sir' but him?

They got out anyway. 'Den' and 'Pru' as America so loquaciously called them had already 'scarpered' as England called it.

But England's eye was caught by a card in the window of the nearby shop. It was written in crayon as if by a 3 year old child:

"ME AND MY MATE PRU WILL FIX YR STUFF"

Underneath it said, "THE NUMBER"

"What on earth is that all about?" England asked.

"Dudes are trying to get work," America explained, recognising the handwriting.

England understood none of it.

* * *

To explain the advertisement, we have to quickly flashback to the previous evening to Denmark and Prussia sat in a grimy public house just around the corner from England's house (he would have been horrified to find them even that close).

"We can't do that taxi-ing no more, dude," Denmark told Prussia sadly over his half pint of beer. (Half pint due to his lack of finances, he hoped no Viking saw him with a half pint, he would never live it down. He might as well take up knitting and be done with it.)

"Why not?" Prussia asked, resisting the urge to correct Denmark's grammar. That would be really lame.

"Cos we ain't got no taxi."

"Ah. That kind of messes our plans up right there."

"Ja." Denmark traced dirty diagrams in the spilled beer on the table in front of him. Not his spilled beer. That was a crime. Really.

"We should start a business!" Prussia exclaimed.

Denmark looked up, his face suddenly lighting up. "A business…" he said slowly.

"Ja."

"Doing what?"

"What are we good at?"

"Drinking. And burping. And…" here Denmark thought hard. It was difficult to think when one was sober. "…Breaking things."

"Ja…" Prussia also thought hard. He was the Awesome Prussia. He usually had lots of ideas. "We're good at pranking people!"

"We could hire ourselves out as pranksters!" Denmark said triumphantly.

"Ja… or as demolition men!"

"Ja!" Denmark's eyes shone. He remembered times past when he'd helped demolish parts of the English countryside.

"Like when I rode that camel through the Austrian Embassy!" Prussia said.

"Or… we could fix stuff!" Denmark said.

"Well.. Ja… like my bruder does?"

"Ja…"

"We need to advertise."

"Like on the television!" Denmark said. "I want to be on the BBC!"

Prussia punched him in the arm, "Stupid! We can't do that!"

"Why not?" Denmark looked hurt. "You mean cos of money?"

"Well… nein… BBC don't do advertising…"

"They'd do ours!"

Prussia, probably the only one between them who had a working brain cell, decided they should 'start small' with advertising.

Thus the next morning, they pinched an exercise book from an unfortunate schoolboy stood at a bus-stop. They tore a page from it and flung it back at the poor boy.

Sitting on a bench, with a crayon, using Prussia's back for something to lean on, Denmark (his tongue stuck out in concentration) wrote their masterly advert. "This is sure to get us loads of jobs," he said.

"Don't forget to put the number," Prussia told him.

"Ja! I have!" Denmark said as he wrote 'THE NUMBER' underneath the advert.

They would wonder, for quite a number of centuries, why they never received any calls.

* * *

IKEA opened up to them like a dream, like a cavernous delight, like a lost weekend… America gazed around himself, spinning around with delight. He was pushing a trolley the size of a small aircraft carrier, Sealand perched in it like a king. "We'll buy all of the things!" he said and took off.

England followed wearily. His paper suit rustled unpleasantly. The CIA men occasionally spoke into their radios and looked most conspicuous, England thought. Germany trudged after England looking very unimpressed. France was nowhere to be seen. Which could be either a good thing or a bad thing. Depending on one's point of view, England often thought.

As it was, he was too busy trying to keep up with America and busy ignoring Germany's conversation. If conversation was the correct term. A conversation usually meant that two people were interacting. Nobody was interacting with Germany. Germany was talking _at_ England. He was telling England exactly how much his Mercedes Benz had cost, and how dreadful England's life now was. England didn't need anyone telling him how awful his life was. He lived with France didn't he? Wasn't that evidence enough?

"Where's France?" England suddenly said as they headed through the 'bedroom' section.

"Dude! Why man? Why?" America shouted in utter exasperation.

England did not need to ask why America was shouting or at who.

France suddenly poked his head out from underneath a duvet. He appeared to be completely naked beneath.

England hoped America had covered Sealand's eyes.

"Shush, enfants," France said maddeningly.

England almost exploded with rage. That France, the most despicable, most degenerate of Nations should call them 'children', completely maddened him.

"He has a point…" Germany muttered, pointing at the security cameras. "If we just move on. Perhaps they…" (Germany clearly meant the staff) "…won't realise we're with him." He said the word 'him' with utter disgust.

England shoved America along quickly. "Move on, move on. We know nothing…" he said. He tried not to notice that there appeared to be not one, not two, but three pair of feet poking out from under the duvet.

But then everything seemed to go wrong very quickly.

One of the CIA men said to America, "Sir? We need to get out of here quickly. The containment field around the cake has been breached."

America looked at him dumbly. Torn between shouting at France and telling England off for not letting him look at the race-car beds, America was trying to work out what the hell was a containment field and why it was breached.

"The cake, Sir…" the CIA man said and then turned to his colleague.

"We need to take cover. God help those people out there on the streets," the other CIA man said.

"What?" America, England and Germany all said.

"Cool…" Sealand said. He appeared to be the only one who'd twigged exactly what was happening and the implications.

And then a noise England had not heard since the War - the wail of early warning sirens.

Germany looked at England and shook his head, "I knew this was how the world would end…"

America and England were still staring around them.

"Pray do tell?" England said finally, ignoring the panic around him and the CIA men trying to shove them towards the stairs.

"Your baking…" Germany answered.

Ten miles north of their location, in Trafalgar Gardens, England's cake had achieved sentience, had grown to enormous size and was oozing its way down the dual carriageway…

 ***To be continued***


	24. All Along the Watchtower

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 24 - All Along the Watchtower**

IKEA basement floor…

"There must be some way out of here," Sealand said to England.

England didn't answer. His back hurt. In his opinion, a 1000 year old Nation should not have to sit on a concrete floor.

"Ze beds here are wonderful. I 'ave tried out four of zem already." France sidled in.

"Get your bloody pants on will you?" England hissed at him. "There are kids here!"

When the sirens had gone off, they had been herded in the IKEA basement along with around a hundred shoppers. All sheltering from the 'cake hazard' outside.

England, Germany, Sealand and America were all sat on the floor. People around them sat in huddles whispering about whether the city of London would still be in one piece or whether this was 'Armageddon'. Apparently, someone had picked up the BBC on their phone and on Twitter 'Cake-a-geddon' was trending. England did not think this was funny.

France flung himself down next to England, who subsequently edged away from him.

"You are so repressed, mon ami," France told him.

"If you mean I believe in keeping my pants on in front of other people, then yes, I am repressed."

"What's the situation outside?" Sealand asked. The small Principality looked restless.

"How the bloody hell do I know?" England replied.

"I wasn't asking you, I was asking him," Sealand said indicating one of the CIA agents with a nod of his head.

"The situation is still critical, Sir," the CIA agent replied.

England shook his head, amazed at Sealand being called 'Sir'. What a strange day. "It's only a bloody cake," he said.

"I think you are underestimating the seriousness of the situation, Mr Kirkland," the man said.

England's left eyebrow twitched.

"It's brilliant, Jerk England!" Sealand said excitedly. "I'd love to see it!"

"Shush," England said, looking around. "There are humans around," he said in a lowered tone. And then realised that that sounded very very odd.

He glanced across the room at America who was sat next to Germany and nodding along. He smiled to himself. He had told the 'boy' to keep Germany occupied and if that had meant listen to the 'boring old fart' then so be it. And for once, the 'boy' was doing just that.

"I mean who on earth decides it's a good idea to demonstrate the capabilities of four Soda Streams in the confines of an elevator is beyond me," Germany was saying. He sat on the concrete floor which he'd wiped with a wetwipe that England suspected he kept for just such a purpose. In fact, the gesture reminded England so much of that other annoying Germanic Nation, Austria, that England was tempted to say something but that would have caused more whinging.

England shook his head as he listened to Germany.

America was still nodding away. At least the 'boy' was being polite.

"Just sit with him and listen to him, keep him out of the CIA's hair, will you?" England had asked America earlier. Basically, just to keep Germany busy and to stop him organising everyone.

America had moaned and finally just sat with the German. Germany had took this as a sign to tell America how awful England's life now was and then tell him some tale about being stuck in a lift with an excitable Italy and an equally excitable Italian soda stream salesman.

"It was everywhere… and of course the firemen did not arrive for hours. Literally hours. Never get stuck in a lift with Italy if you possibly help it. If I'd had a suitably sharp implement I would have cut my own throat," Germany said.

America continued to nod his head.

France sniggered.

England refused to be drawn into the conversation.

"And then obviously, Feliciano bought two of these Soda Stream things. Everything and I mean everything… coffee, tea, fruit juice, milk, even schnapps were made fizzy. It was dreadful." Germany continued.

America was still nodding.

"I'm glad you understand, young America," Germany said.

This would normally irritate America, but he still nodded.

It was then that England realised that America's head bobbing was not as a result of listening to the German's long list of complaints and agreeing with them, but due to the presence of 'ear thingies' - namely earphones. The American was nodding his head along to his ipod.

England stood up and walked over, and gave the prone American's feet a kick.

"What?" America said, briefly taking out his earphones.

But England did not have chance to tell him off as he was lifted off his own feet by a very large CIA man and slammed against the wall. "I respectfully ask that you don't do that, Kirkland," the man said.

England noted that he had been demoted from merely 'Mr Kirkland' (not even 'Sir') to 'Kirkland'.

"Cool!" Sealand exclaimed. Utterly delighted.

"Oh mon cher!" France said and got to his feet, "Gaston! I implore you!" he said, putting a hand on the CIA man's arm.

England, pinned against the wall by his neck, crossed his arms waiting for France to also be summarily flung to the floor or against the wall.

He stared agog instead as 'Gaston' calmly nodded and said, "Yes Sir," and released England.

England dropped to the floor and glared at Gaston and France. He would have uttered a few expletives but there were too many children around.

"They've brought the military in!" someone told them.

"It's a bloody cake," England muttered. "Why don't they just ask me?"

"Yes, it is your fault, Mr Kirkland," 'Gaston' told him.

"Quite right," Germany said, pausing in his diatribe about the various beverages Italy had carbonated. "The end of civilisation is your fault."

"Perhaps we used too much baking powder?" England asked Sealand.

"Hey! Don't bring me into this!" Sealand said.

Various phones had been ringing whilst they had been there. So England could be excused for ignoring his own phone ringing in his pocket.

"Is zat your phone, Angleterre?" France asked.

"No… Although I can hear that bloody infernal song," England said. Meaning of course he could hear 'Is this the way to Amarillo'. He looked around, fearful of seeing Prussia or Denmark or both. He then realised that it was indeed his phone. "Oh bloody hell…" he muttered. "Who in God's name is it?" he yelled down the phone. And then stood to attention. "Oh ma'am! Yes, your Majesty!"

France sniggered to himself. "Ah zis is so funny. You are so quaint with your royal family and your monarchy," he said, winking at some poor man, whose wife promptly nudged him.

England meanwhile was babbling, "It wasn't my fault! Peter and I… yes Your Majesty, Peter is staying with me at the moment. No, I didn't get out of it this time. The SAS training weekend in Llandudno was a bit erm… of an excuse…" England side-eyed Sealand who wasn't listening. The youngster was listening intently to Gaston's radio.

England continued, "So in essence, Your Majesty, I think it was too much baking powder…" he stopped and listened. "Oh right… Youtube. I'm on Youtube…" England slouched against the wall and almost stepped on a small child as he did so. A rather stout lady snatched up the child and glared at him. "So sorry," he mumbled. "Yes your Majesty it was rather funny wasn't it?" he said through gritted teeth. He glared at France, who was smirking at him.

"Can I parlez avec her Majesty?" France asked.

"No you bloody well cannot!" England almost shrieked and then quickly pulled himself together, "So sorry. I wasn't talking to you, your Majesty, I was talking to Francis." He said the name 'Francis' as if he were saying the words 'Bubonic Plague'. "Yes, I'll put him on…" he sighed eventually and passed the phone to Francis and then sat down. "My life is over," he confided to the stout woman.

"Your life is a mess," Germany told him.

England ignored him and also tried to ignore Francis speaking very quickly in breathy French on his phone to the Queen. He hated his fellow Nations.

France finally hung up, "She says you are tres funny and zat she cannot wait to see more Youtube videos, mon cher."

Before England had time to respond, a few things happened all at once.

America suddenly stood up and, obviously inspired by his 'ipud' or whatever it was called and began singing 'Born in the USA' extremely loudly and very out of tune. This caused much consternation around the basement.

Then Sealand got to his feet and slinked towards the door.

And then Gaston or Philippe (England was still not sure which was which) clicked off their radio and announced that they were moving to the roof. Whatever that meant.

England attempted to shut America up and then attempted to go after Sealand at the same time.

But Gaston, or Philippe had already grabbed England, France and America and herded all three towards the exits. Germany followed.

"Get your hands off me!" England told 'Gaston'.

"I was born in the USA!" America sang, punching the air, completely unaware of his surroundings.

"Of course you were," England sighed and tried to head off Sealand.

"There's a helicopter waiting," Gaston told England.

"For who?" England asked.

"Pour moi!" France said and hopped after the other CIA man who was steering America towards the exit. "Finally! Someone has realised that I am a star!" France breathed.

"THIS IS SO COOL!" America yelled at England as they were being strapped into the helicopter.

"No it's not." England did not like helicopters and already felt queasy.

"Eet eez like being a movie star," France said.

"No it's not."

"THIS IS SO COOL!" America yelled again. As he had his ipod still on full blast he had no idea he was shouting or that everybody could hear him.

"Can somebody please tell the American idiot to be quiet?" Germany asked England.

"Why did we bring him?" England asked 'Philippe' or 'Gaston', pointing at Germany.

"He is required at the meeting."

"What meeting? And where is my son?" England asked, looking down as the helipad receded too quickly. Who on earth knew that IKEA had a helipad? He couldn't see Sealand anywhere.

"Admiral Peter Kirkland assured us he would engage the enemy."

"Admiral?" England almost choked. "Admiral? The boy's not a bloody admiral!"

"Admiral of the Royal Navy," Gaston said, looking at England through those sunglasses.

"He outranks you," Germany pointed out.

"THIS IS SO COOL!" America yelled.

"Do you zink I should wave to ze crowds?" Francis asked.

"You're not going to some bloody movie premiere. This is not for you, Francis," England told him. "And will somebody bloody well switch off that idiot's ipud?"

Germany shook his head disapprovingly at England and pointed at the chaos below them.

Just north of the City, right about where England's house should have been, was a cake. Or what looked to be a large, glowing gloop of a cake.

It covered around five streets, a park and the local shops. England sighed when he realised his favourite grocery store had been obliterated.

The cake was now oozing down towards the river.

"It's trying to escape!" Germany said. "Mein Gott! If that thing gets to the Thames and open water it could spread around the world!"

"You need to calm down, Germany. It's just a bloody cake." England sighed.

"Just a cake!" Germany stared at England and shook his head. "By tomorrow it could be on the continent. France? What do you think? That thing could be in Paris by tomorrow."

"Do you zink I should do somezing avec my hair?" France asked.

"What for?" England asked.

"Ze photographers of course!"

"THIS IS SO FREAKIN' COOL!" America yelled at England.

"The cake's crushed my begonias!" England as he watched out of the helicopter window. "I knew I'd used too many eggs," he said as he sat back defeatedly in his seat.

"Yes, I'm sure that must be it. We'll all remember this when we're facing the end of the world," Germany said.

"Oh stop being so dramatic," England said.

"That thing is growing!" Germany pointed out.

He was right. The cake was growing. It had doubled in size while they were watching it.

* * *

Later… At the Ministry of Defence building, Whitehall…

The meeting room they were in was impressive. Along one wall was a rather famous painting of the Battle of Waterloo.

France had limped in, using 'Philippe' as a crutch, seen the painting and promptly sagged into a chair. "Oh! Eet eez too much! Poor Napoleon!" he wailed to no-one. He was also upset that they were not at the Cannes Film Festival and there were no paparazzi awaiting him.

Indeed, no-one was listening to France.

They were all bickering.

Present already at the meeting were an assortment of Nations (Hungary, Austria, Italy, Russia) who had been called in by the UK Government about the 'threat'.

"We really need your help to counteract this serious threat to the world's security. So far, ordinary bullets are not stopping the er…" the UK Intelligence Chief hesitated to call it a 'cake'.

"Excuse me, but is there any tea to be had? I'm absolutely parched," England asked.

"Nobody cares about my predicament!" France wailed.

"Hold on! Question?" Russia said, holding up a hand and glaring at England.

"Austria, why don't you say something?" Hungary hissed to Austria sat next to her. Why on earth they were in London, no-one knew. In fact England had thought Hungary was in Benidorm with Ukraine.

America finally took his earphones off. Clearly his ipod's battery had run out and he looked around. "What's going on, dudes?"

"I will take notes. I also think I should lead this meeting," Germany said.

"I'm sorry but I can't do anything without a cup of tea," England said.

"I'm the hero and I'm in charge!" America yelled, standing up.

"Do you know what's happening?" Germany asked, looking at him.

"Well… no… but…"

"We have a cake situation. At the moment it cannot be stopped. Everytime it has been hit by bullets or even heavy artillery, it grows," the Intelligence Chief told them.

"See?" America said. "Now I know."

Russia still held up his hand, "Excuse me, Western idiots. What about nuking it?"

"That would destroy London," one of the CIA men pointed out.

"Da!" Russia nodded and seemed quite cheery about this prospect. "I'm sure my boss would be happy to help out."

Everyone shuddered.

"Has anyone actually attempted to communicate with it?" asked Hungary.

"Sir, we have tried to establish a cordon around it and we used loud hailers to attempt to talk to it," the CIA man said.

"It's a bloody cake…" England muttered. He was also aghast at Hungary being called 'Sir'.

"It has shown indications of intelligence, Mr Kirkland." 'Philippe' or 'Gaston' said. England still had no idea which was which.

"For God's sake…"

"Perhaps it's looking for some icing. I saw on the news that it doesn't have any," Russia pointed out.

"This is crazy…" England said with his head in his hands.

"I do not see why we are here. We… especially moi, should be taken somewhere of greater safety," France said.

"You're bloody going nowhere, you bloody coward," England said.

"Safety? You think we're in danger?" Italy looked as if he were going to cry and clung to Germany.

"Get off me, Italy! Of course we're in danger! The whole world's in danger!"

"The US Army will save us!" America announced. "Have you called in the Seals?"

"Music!" Austria declared. "Have you tried music? I find Mozart and Chopin most relaxing."

"No ma'am, we haven't," one of the CIA men said.

England smirked at Austria being called 'ma'am'. Austria grimaced.

"Any more suggestions?" the Intelligence Chief asked, looking as if he were going to fling himself out of the window.

"I'm not a ma'am," Austria said.

"Why are you bloody here?" England asked again.

"We gathered all the Nations who are in London together to see if they could assist us. After all, this thing is now heading towards the Thames. Who knows what would happen if got to the continent?" the Intelligence Chief told them.

"I was busy making pastaaa for Germany at my embassy when they rang me. We were having a date later on and..." Italy began to explain at a hundred miles an hour but Germany nudged him to be quiet.

England wondered why on earth anyone would ring Italy. Russia he could understand, perhaps even Hungary and Austria at a push, but Italy?

Somebody had wheeled in a television screen. They could see a BBC live transmission where a harrassed and scared looking presenter was telling them that the 'cake' had still not been stopped and that it was still 'oozing' down Finchley High Street. There were overhead helicopter shots of said cake squelching down the road with people running from it.

"It will bloody disintegrate! Are you bloody kidding me?" England shouted. He felt a little proud and a little alarmed in equal measure that his cake was now on the loose around London.

"Yes! Dude England is right. We need to disintegrate it!" America yelled. "Someone throw some water at it!"

"Sir, it is three storeys high and growing all the time." The man pointed at the television screen. The scene reminded some of them of very bad 1950s horror movies where a blob of indeterminate origin oozed down streets and people ran from it.

"Ah." England said and shut up.

"We put firemen's hoses on it but it grew exponentially," the Intelligence Chief told them.

"Honhonhon, ah yes!" France said in a weird pervy way.

England nudged France. "I'm sorry but who are you?" he asked the Intelligence Chief.

"I'm Colonel Worthington-Smythe," the man said.

"I think we go in there and hit it with everything we've got!" America yelled. "…Using England's scones!"

The other Nations looked horrified.

"Do you want to cause Armageddon?" Germany said, utterly appalled.

"What happens if just some of the scones escape across the Channel?" Hungary asked.

"My Red Army could fight the cake but I'm not so sure about the scones." Russia announced.

"This is outrageous!" Austria said finally. "Germany tell them!"

"Yes, my mean friend is right. To drop scones on this… confectionery… would only be like fighting fire with fire." Germany told them in a grim voice.

"It's a bloody cake!" England yelled and then went quiet when the doors opened and an old lady came doddering in with a tea trolley. "Oh good, tea…"

"Are there any custard creams?" Russia asked, standing up and looming over them.

"Ach! You didnae recognise me did yer?" Scotland threw off the old lady disguise (however, he kept the skirt and pinny on). "Yer a bunch of big eejits and yer, Arthur, are a rubbish Nation!"

As only England understood a word (and that was sketchy at best), the others did not realise that Scotland had just insulted them all.

"He has such a musical voice…" France breathed.

"Is Scotland a woman?" Russia whispered to France. (Russia had long-held problems with figuring out genders on first appearances.)

"I'm a man and proud of it!" Scotland told them. (He pronounced proud as 'prood'.)

"Do you have any idea how to defeat the baking threat?" one of the CIA men asked.

"Is it shortbread?" Scotland asked, pouring tea for England.

"No."

"Then, no. I cannae help yer. It's the end of the world, sonny. I'd head for the hills. But not my hills of bonnie Scotland though," Scotland told them unhelpfully, taking the lid off the tin of biscuits.

"Wait! I'm getting some news!" one of the CIA men said, with his finger to his ear.

"Do you have Springsteen on your ipod as well?" America asked.

"No, stupid! He's talking about his radio!" England said, stuffing a ginger nut in his mouth.

"There are no custard creams!" Russia said. "Kolkolkol…"

"The cake has been obliterated!" the CIA man said.

"Oh Gaston! Zat is so good! Now take off your shirt and tell us everyzing!" France said.

"Three courageous, brave individuals battled it and brought it down…" 'Gaston' said, edging away from France.

"Damn them to hell…" England muttered.

"Well thank Gott for that!" Germany said, shoving Italy off his lap. "Italy you can get off my knee now. We're all going to live."

"Navy Seals? Man they're the best!" America shouted, punching the air.

"No, Sir. It was Nations. They saved the world…"

 **To Be Continued...**

 **Next Chapter - the unexpected heroes of the hour...**


	25. Said the Joker to the Thief

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: PollyLittle, Browsofglory, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 25 - "Said the Joker to the Thief"**

 **Apologies to Bob Dylan…**

 **Warnings: Most of this chapter is in Prussia's own words..**

Ministry of Defence Building, Whitehall, London

England, America, France, Russia, Scotland, Germany and Italy (his eyes closed), Hungary and Austria (who was still raving about being called ma'am) all watched the TV screen in horror.

A BBC journalist was interviewing the 'two heroes' who had apparently 'saved' the world.

Barely recognisable, covered head to toe in chocolate gloop, their hair stood on end, both brandishing large spoons, Prussia and Denmark jostled for position in front of the cameras.

"It was us! We ate it!" Denmark yelled.

Prussia nudged him. "We're available for I'm a Celebrity Get Me out of here and Big Brother!"

"And that X Factor!"

"Yeah! But Simon Cowell can stuff it. He'll rue the day he got us thrown off that stage!"

The BBC journalist attempted to gain some control, "Can you tell me how you defeated the cake?"

"Listen darling…" (the journalist was a man) "…We're brave and I'm the King of Northern Europe so…" Denmark said.

The journalist ignored him and turned to Prussia.

Prussia nodded, "No reason to get excited," he said and added, "Is this camera on?" He then turned to the camera, his face all but pressed up against it until all the Nations watching on the TV screen could see were his red eyes, "Right, I will tell you the full story…" he said. And he did….

* * *

 _Me and Den_ _were sat in Den's Embassy waiting for some calls to come through. We're self-employed and we'd put some notices up saying we would mend stuff for people. But nobody rang! Can you believe it? Anyway, Dude Den and me were drinking. It was only 8 am, yeah I know but he's a Viking and I'm a Prussian. Not German. Make a note of that._

 _This dude Danish guy came up and told us we were making the place look untidy. I resented that. I know we were in the reception bit where dudes come in for visas and stuff. Oh yeah and this Danish guy told Den to put a shirt on!_

 _He was the Danish Ambassador. What an idiot. I told him who I was. But he wasn't interested._

 _And then someone told us we either get out or do some work. That was a shock._

 _Den and me have had jobs before. We used to run a cab but then we lost our car. That makes it a bit difficult to pick people up and take them to the airport or some rubbish. We did try but giving people piggy-backs didn't work. And what do you do with people's luggage? That guy in the suit wasn't happy when we dumped his suitcase in the Thames._

 _Anyway, we said we'd have a go at actually having a job. Each. It was better than being back on the streets or sleeping in that luggage locker in Kings Cross station. We had to take it in turns to sleep there. I got stuck in there for four hours once. Believe me, living in a storage locker is not fun._

 _Anyway, half an hour as a filing clerk and Den managed to set an office on fire and break two windows. I broke one of those swivel chairs and a photocopier. One woman had to be rescued from a storage cupboard and the Danish Consulate's dog is still on the roof. I have no idea why it went feral._

 _And it was only 9 am. I had the bright idea of going to see my brother to get some money. I knew he was in London. He stays at the German Embassy but sometimes he stays with this little dozy Italian dude. I want to say they're gay for each other but I'm not sure…_

 _Anyway, I went over to the German Embassy and they wouldn't let me in. I told them who I was and that made the security guards a bit mad and they threw us out._

 _Even Den couldn't persuade them. In fact when he told them who he was, they threatened to call the police._

 _That wasn't good._

 _The Danish dudes had already called the police on us._

 _So we skipped along to the Hungarian Embassy. Well not skipped. We don't skip. Well yeah we did a bit. But sometimes it's fun and it's quicker and more economical than walking and it's in-between walking and running. Not that we were running from the security dudes. We were skipping. So in a way it's very Prussian to skip._

 _Anyway, I've a dude friend at the Hungarian Embassy. When I say a dude, I mean a dude chick. Let's call this friend 'Liz'. Why? Cos that's her name._

 _Anyway, dude chick Liz told me I could come in but dude Den couldn't. She likes me but doesn't like him. I have no idea why. He had to sit outside. He chatted to the security guards outside and asked them why they wore such mad hats._

 _I don't know why he asked that. They weren't wearing hats. But that's Den for you. He's philosophical like that and likes to ask deep questions._

 _Liz said he was drunk. But I know differently._

 _She also refused to lend me money._

 _That was a blow. Mainly because I had the sum total of four Euros on me. And I knew Den had far less._

 _Her idiot husband who I won't even name here, cos he'll sue me but let's just call him 'Mr Meanie' or 'Specs' or even 'Roderich' also said I couldn't borrow any money. He actually told me I was a complete joker. That was unfair I thought as it's been a while since I'd sent those brochures for incontinence aids to his address. I use my time wisely._

 _He doesn't like me. He never has. But I remember when he was just a jumped-up Count dressed in shabby clothes… oh wait he still is. He isn't a Count though really. He's about as aristocratic as I am. His mum owned a bar and ran a poker ring on the side._

(In the Whitehall building, Austria almost fainted in shock.)

 _Anyway, Liz told me to get a job. She's clearly demented. I blame all that Mozart she's been subjected to._

 _I told her we'd had a job but lost our car. She said we should get another mode of transport then._

 _Then she told me to leave. Well actually her security guards helped me to leave. Hungarians are a bit rowdy. Her idiot husband laughed. He's going to be getting some emails about erectile dysfunction pretty soon. His email address is: . Make a note of that if any Nigerian prince wants to send him money…_

 _Right, yeah okay, I'm getting to the story._

 _As I was leaving I saw their telly was showing some breaking news rubbish about some cake taking over London or something. It was oozing out of a house. I recognised the house. You can't not know that house. With the bloody begonias, the gate that says 'welcome' on it, but you know damn fine it means 'not bloody you, bloody foreigners'._

(England yelled "it's not true!" at the screen whilst France murmured sadly, "Eet eez true, mon ami".)

 _It was glorious. Arthur's baking is legendary. I've never partaken of it myself. But I've heard he could kill a German regiment with just one scone._

 _There was a whole cake oozing out of the house._

 _I made my exit of Liz's house and met up with Den._

 _Now some people would say we stole that horse. I disagree. Zsa Zsa Gabor came along with us quite willingly. I suppose it's just that Liz didn't know she followed us._

 _Kind of._

 _I gave her sugar lumps and she liked me, the horse that is, not Liz. But Zsa Zsa Gabor didn't like Den. In fact she bit him on the arse._

 _There was also a dude dragon. But we won't talk about him. Why? Cos he's invisible. Now the dragon liked Den but didn't like me._

 _I told Den about the cake and that we now had transport and we could now do our taxi-cabbing._

 _Den said we should go save the world from the cake and that we might get a reward._

 _Now I have to admit I was torn. On the one hand we could pick people up (me on Zsa Zsa Gabor and Den on the dragon) and deposit them at the airport. Even if they didn't want to go to the airport. Heathrow airport was the only place we could get on Google maps. And there was only my phone that could get Google maps. Mainly because Den doesn't have a phone. He lost it when a big Russian dude rammed it in someone's skull. But that's a story for another day. My phone is fairly rubbish. It doesn't have a back. Or any buttons. There's a big piece of bubblegum stuck to the speaker so I can't hear phone calls._

 _I tried to get Roderich to buy me a new one with all his savings. But he doesn't like me. He's so mean he once fought an old woman over a cut price tin of baked beans in the grocery store. He lost. His grandma would be appalled. She fought cows for money. His grandad was a milkmaid. It's no wonder Roderich is the way he is._

(Austria fainted clean away from the shock. The other Nations stared at him.)

 _We rode to Kirkland's house. I was on Zsa Zsa Gabor and Den rode the dragon. The dragon doesn't like me. We have history. I think he thinks I'm one of those hobbit dudes or something who stole something off him. He was burgled a few thousand years ago. It wasn't me. I don't know if he claimed off insurance._

 _Anyway we got to Kirkland's house and there was a bloody huge cake there. It was great. It was also glowing and green. Dude Den got there without going into any pubs. That amazed me. But he said that none of them allowed dragons. Even invisible dragons._

 _So Den was sobering up. That wasn't good._

 _Another thing that wasn't good was that annoying kid, Peter Kirkland who everyone was calling 'Admiral'. I've never heard anything so ridiculous. Not since Roderich tried to fight me back in the War of the Austrian Succession. I mean what made him think he could beat me? Me, the great Awesomest soldier who ever lived? Against that idiot who gets his wife to fight for him._

 _Admiral Kirkland told me he was there because the cake was his and he and idiot Arthur had baked it to take over the world. I laughed at him and he kicked me in the knee. Den laughed at me and then he got kicked as well. Den told the kid that he would get grounded for that. But this Admiral with height problems told us he was going to rule the world. I told him to beat it. He said he would only go if we gave him some territory._

 _I said he could have Schleswig-Holstein but because he's a typical Brit he couldn't pronounce it which I had banked on anyway. But Den then said he could have Greenland. This is absolute rubbish of course because Greenland is a hard chick dude and would kick little Peter's short arse._

 _Anyway the little shit said that he had loads of territory and with the help of the cake he was going to take over the world and then he laughed like this:_

 _"Bwahahaha!"_

 _Well that wasn't very cool and I told him to laugh like this:_

 _"Kesesese!"_

 _But then somebody said that the hour was getting late and to stop wasting time._

 _It might have been Den._

 _And then we knew what we had to do._

 _Especially when Mr Ping did his fire-breathing act and baked some of the cake. But not too much, we didn't want it burnt._

 _Den hurried into Arthur's house and got some big spoons. He also messed up the flower arrangements and Arthur's cutlery drawer. Yes, that'll show him._

(In the Ministry of Defence Building, England seethed.)

 _Anyway, the cake was a bit… I want to say gooey but I don't think that's a very Prussian word. So I will call it inedible._

 _But Den can pretty much eat anything. He lives with Tino and Berwald and Berwald often makes some kind of smorgasbord which I think is some kind of smorg that's been killed and put on a board. But don't quote me on that. But even Den was not happy as we started eating. We knew we had to save the Earth and also to stop Peter Kirkland from taking over the world. That must not happen._

 _Nothing could be as bad, even Fat Ivan taking over wouldn't be as bad as that, or even Roderich actually winning the lottery. Now that would be awful… Roderich lives in a cave. Is this camera still on?_

 _Oh right, yes, back to the story._

 _Anyway, Den ran back into Arthur's house and made some custard. We thought custard would make the cake more eatable. Is that a word? More edible. Ja. Anyway, it did. Kind of._

 _Short-arse Kirkland, that is, Admiral Peter Kirkland who everyone kept calling 'Sir', kept telling us off. He said we were ruining his cunning plan for taking over the world._

 _And we did._

* * *

There was silence as the BBC journalist and the cameraman looked shaken. The camera panned away to the surrounding scene. The cake was now just a puddle of green/brown gloop covering the street where people in Hazmat suits were covering it in the kind of foam used in chemical spills.

'Admiral' Kirkland was being taken away and told he was 'grounded for the next month'. Whilst Zsa Zsa Gabor nuzzled Prussia, Den was waving to something invisible to the humans.

"Bye Mr Ping! I'll miss you!" Den shouted. "Come visit me in Copenhagen!"

"You don't live in Copenhagen, you live in London with me," Prussia said.

"I know…"

"Yes Zsa Zsa, I'll take you back to Liz's later. Just promise me you won't bite Den on the arse again." Prussia said.

Special Branch Officers stepped in and loaded the two 'heroes' into a van where they would be disinfected.

* * *

Back at the Department of Defence, the Nations stood speechless. Scotland handed England another cup of tea and put a shot of whisky into it for good measure.

"It's all lies!" Austria finally spluttered, breaking the silence.

"Dude! I was supposed to be the hero!" America yelled and flung himself down.

"My horse!" Hungary exclaimed.

"We survived! I'm so happy!" Italy cried and jumped into Germany's arms. Germany promptly dropped him.

"They messed with my cutlery drawer!" England said.

"That was an act of war!" Russia told England. "I will destroy them for you!"

"Back to Arthur's for a post-Apocalypse Party!" France announced.

And much to England's horror they all yelled "Yes!" and headed out of the door.


	26. It's My Party and I'll cry if I want to

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 26 - It's my Party and I'll cry if I want to**

Arthur's house…

"Will you bloody move?" England shouted in the direction of the television. "I mean really?" he craned his head as he tried to see around the melee of Nations in his sitting room.

The Nations were all either in a state of drinking, dancing, shouting or singing. And all in various states of undress.

When they had returned to England's house - against England's protestations, they had had to spend a good part of four hours cleaning the cake goop from the windows and doors where the cake had oozed its way to freedom. Actually it was Germany and France who had done the cleaning. Italy had tried to help but then had broken one of England's vases. Austria had had a flashback to his time as an Empire with Italy as a maid in his house breaking his priceless antiques and had fainted.

The first thing England had done was to check on his beloved Bentley. He'd been in a bit of a state to be honest when he'd first seen the cake erupting from his house and was worrying about his car. As it happened, the car was fine. Just covered in chocolate gloop. He refused help in cleaning it. He certainly did not want any of the Nations' grubby hands touching it.

Hungary had "helped" France which seemed to involve delving into England's pantry and giggling about his out of date tins of preserves. Russia had attempted to fix the garden gate which had fallen off its hinges by the cake's progress onto the street, by attacking it with an axe. England did not think this had helped.

After the cleaning (Russia had replaced the crushed begonias with sunflowers that he cellotaped to the broken flowers), the Nations had begun drinking…

"Can you move away from the television, please?" England asked. "And turn the bloody music down?"

England was trying to catch up with his recordings of Coronation Street. He sat on his sofa, trying to ignore Italy sat one side of him telling him about the fact that he and Romano's restaurant was probably not financially viable. On the other side was Russia who seemed to be under the impression that Coronation Street was a documentary about contemporary British life.

Obscuring England's view of his television was America who was engaging in karaoke with France.

England did not think that the two songs went very well together and told them so, "I'm sorry but Brian Springsteen and Edith Piaf don't really go together, do they?"

It achieved the desired effect as America strode across to England's awful and ancient music system and switched it off. "Brian? It's not Brian!"

"Thank God…" England said as the music stopped.

"So all English streets have these coddles?" Russia asked, looking puzzled.

"Cobbles!" England yelled.

"Wut?" Russia growled, seeing this as a grave insult.

"I er don't mean you, old chap," England said, and made the mistake of clapping Russia on his shoulder, promptly hurting his hand.

"Don't touch me," Russia growled.

"Angleterre is a bad-tempered old man," France declared and swigged some wine.

"He is a degenerate," Germany said and then turned to Hungary who had been berating Austria about letting the CIA agents call him 'ma'am'. "Do you know France and England lured me here and then dropped a desk on my car?" Germany said.

"It doesn't surprise me," Hungary said.

"England also has your phone, Österreich," Germany said, hinting that England had actually stolen it.

"Really?" Austria turned round. "I wondered why I was getting no phone calls."

"That's because you lost it somewhere, you idiot," Hungary said.

"I didn't steal anybody's phone!" England said.

"Zere numbers are very similar," France said winking and sashaying around the room.

"Can you put Brian Springsteen back on?" Italy asked. "I like him. Do you think he will do a charity concert in aid of mine and my fratello's restaurant? Cafe Vargas was doing really well until…"

"…Until England here turned up." Germany finished for him. "I had a financial stake in that restaurant."

"Well that's your bloody fault isn't it?" England said, still trying to crane around France's dancing - which wasn't the most elegant as he still had a cast on one foot.

"Does anyone want a wee dram?" Scotland shouted from the kitchen.

"Get out of my kitchen!" England yelled.

"What is a weedram?" Russia asked England.

"He means whisky," England explained. "Oh for goodness sake! I can't see what's happening! Did they get married or what?"

"I think that someone just walked in and said that they can't get married and then somebody is now having a baby!" Russia said, his eyes wide as he watched the television.

"Yer cannae be serious about watching that rubbish!" Scotland yelled at them.

"Come and dance with me, Hamish," France said.

"Ach yer a strange gay laddie!" Scotland declared. Coming from a man still wearing a skirt (and not a kilt either) and still in a tea-lady's disguise, this remark was astounding.

"Do not bother zen," France said.

Hamish threw his tea-tray down (he'd been about to bring a tray full of teapots and teacups into the room) and joined France in a tango. "I didnae say I didnae want to dance, yer soft lad!" he said indignantly.

England tried to shoo them out of the way, "Did she have the baby, Russia?" he asked. "Did you see?"

"Da! But that man isn't the father and she wasn't the mother… or something like that. I'm confused."

"Can you two stop dancing?" England yelled.

"Then they said I couldn't have any more loans…" Italy was saying.

England had no idea how long Italy had been talking or about what.

"Who do you mean?" England asked.

"Nyet, I expect they wouldn't," Russia said. "They don't know what they are doing in their own lives. That man there…" (Russia pointed at the television) "… thinks that baby is his but I don't think it is. So I don't think he should give you any money. Besides I don't think he even has any money!"

"Who are you talking about?" England asked.

France, who was teaching Scotland to samba, was dipped backwards, his face uncomfortably close to England's lap, "I zink he zinks Coronation Street is real life and zat zay are refusing to give leetle Italy some money," France explained with a leer.

"I knew zat.. I mean that," England said, shoving France's head away.

"Where is your son, England?" Russia asked suddenly.

"I'm over here!" America yelled. "I'm trying to find some music in Arthur's CD case that was made this century."

"Not you, Amerika, I mean that smaller one, the one who made the cake."

"I made the bloody cake," England said, pressing the remote control and trying to find BBC2. Someone, probably France, had been 'buggering' around with this television. All he seemed to be able to get was France 24, a shopping channel and the History Channel. He very quickly clicked past this last one lest Russia or the others saw it and a re-enactment of the battle of Stalingrad would begin.

"He means Sealand. Sealand had to go back with Finland and Sweden. They didn't look too happy either. I think he's been grounded," America said. "I get his room now. But I still want a racecar bed."

"Racecar bed?" Russia's eyes widened. The wonders of Western Europe never ceased to amaze him. "You can get a bed that is a car?"

"Yeah man!"

"I bet you will not get custody of young Peter for a while," France said to England as he trotted past with Scotland, now doing a Highland Fling. England had no idea how the idiot could dance with a pot on his foot.

"Thank God," England muttered.

Just as England thought that the night couldn't get any worse. It did.

Russia took the remote control from him and switched over to the shopping channel. This elicited much 'oohs' and 'ahs' from him and Italy who both seemed amazed at the idea of a blender. Then Austria, after much urging from Hungary, began to play his violin. England tried to catch the eye of one of the CIA men to see if they would throw out the other Nations. But Gaston and Philippe or whoever they were, were closely watching America.

And then the door was flung open bringing it with it an ominous gale as if from a far-off land…

"Yo! Two man party pack coming through! Make way for the heroes!"

It was Denmark and Prussia.

Incredibly, both Gaston and Philippe saluted them and called them 'Sir'.

"But I'm the hero! I am, aren't I, Artie?" America protested.

"Not today you weren't!" Prussia said.

They were both dressed in white paper Hazmat suits.

"What happened to your clothes?" England asked.

"They were incinerated," Denmark said. He beamed as he said this as if this was something to be proud of.

"And where are my spoons?" England asked.

Prussia ignored him but shoved Austria out of the way, "Stop that violining, Specs, while I tell the tale."

"I want to tell the tale!" Denmark argued.

"Where's my horse?" Hungary asked, her arms crossed.

"In the kitchen!" Prussia nodded to the door.

Scotland dropped France and went to look. He popped back into the room and nodded at England, "He is!"

"She! The horse is a she!" Prussia said.

"There's a bloody horse in my kitchen? Are you having a bloody laugh?" England leapt to his feet and stormed into the kitchen.

There was a horse in his kitchen. It was munching on some Rich Tea biscuits. England wasn't sure if he was unhappy about the horse being in the kitchen or the idea of it eating his biscuits.

In the living room, Austria was threatening to hit Prussia with his violin. Denmark was trying to tell them how he and Prussia had saved the world and seemed amazed that they already knew the story.

"How come you lot saw us?" Denmark asked.

"You were on the television," England said with a sigh.

"No way! Are we famous now or what?" Denmark asked.

"We're going to get medals!" Prussia said.

"Bugger off," England said.

"S'true," Prussia said nodding.

"Outrageous!" Germany spluttered.

England had to agree with him. "You are right mein Herr," England said in his terrible German impersonation.

Germany glared at him. "You are on thin ice, England as it is. You still owe me lots of money for my car."

"We did not lure you here to deliberately drop a desk on your bloody car!" England yelled.

"Non, we did not! We lured you here to detrouser you!" France leered.

"No we didn't!" England yelled. "I didn't want to detrouser you!" he added.

Germany blushed scarlet.

Russia leaned across to England, "Can I use your telephone?"

"What? Why?"

"So we can buy this spaghetti maker," Russia pointed to the television.

"Who's the 'we'?" England asked.

"Italy and me," Russia said.

Italy was nodding, looking terrified.

England pointed to the phone.

"So these medals you're getting…" England said turning to Prussia who was about to fight Austria who had had the temerity to insinuate that Prussia and Denmark should not get medals for merely eating a cake.

"Ja! We're heroes!" Prussia said.

"Hold me back Liz before I thrash this scoundrel!" Austria said to Hungary.

"Oh cool it, Specs, I'll get back to you in a bit!" Prussia told him.

"Medals? Real medals?" England asked.

"Ja!"

"It'll be brilliant!" Denmark said and burped.

"Tell them it's not fair, Artie!" America whined.

"No, it's not fair, I quite agree!" England said. "Surely not… who's giving out these so-called medals to you two fools?"

"Her Maj!" Prussia said.

"Do yer mean Her Majesty the Queen?" Scotland said, stopping his dancing so abruptly that as he stopped moving, France carried on and fell over. Gaston helped France up calling him 'Sir' which made England's left eye twitch with annoyance.

"No, her Majesty the Queen of this Party Sucks!" Prussia yelled, swigging a beer. He was already very drunk. "I mean what is this? An embroidery club?"

"I don't bloody believe this," England said.

"Ja! Tomorrow we're going to some palace place and the Queen is going to give us a medal each," Denmark said. "Cos we are heroes." He said the word 'heroes' again whilst looking sideways at America.

Everyone just stared at them.

"I'm going home… Austria, Hungary, do you need a lift anywhere?" Germany announced.

"Take me with you!" Italy yelled, jumping into his arms.

"But we've just bought a spaghetti maker, a juicer and a hand-held whisk!" Russia told Italy.

Italy almost burst into tears.

"I'm investing in Italy's restaurant," Russia told England.

"Can you take Russia with you?" England asked Germany, quietly.

Whether Germany heard him or not is unsure, but he was already out of the door. Austria and Hungary followed. Italy was clinging to Germany's leg and whining piteously.

"I think I will get a good return," Russia said, smiling creepily.

England doubted that. But wasn't sure if Russia meant this in monetary terms or not.

"I'll leave Zsa Zsa here shall I? And pick her up tomorrow?" Hungary called to England.

England shouted back, "No!" but nobody heard him.

"Well I think it's time we cracked open the big boys' beer!" Scotland announced and pulled out some Irn Bru and began pouring it into his and Prussia's beer. It was just what England had feared.

"Can I try some of that as well?" Russia asked.

Irn Bru mixed with vodka was, England thought, not a good combination. But to be honest, he passed out soon after his second glass and so his memory from then on was hazy to say the least.

He was only vaguely aware of someone dragging him by his feet up the stairs (so his head bumped on each step) and throwing him onto his bed.

There was some 'kesese-ing' outside on the driveway about sleeping in a Bentley. England was too incapacitated to do anything. The words 'Bentley' and 'Den' rattled in his brain but seemed far away.

And somebody, England had no idea who, had pulled off his shoes, laughed at his Union Jack socks, took off his jacket and then his trousers. England wasn't to know that the tattoos Belarus had covered him with saved him from a horrible fate as his 'debriefer' backed away quickly as if scalded.

 **To be continued…**


	27. Everybody Wants to be a Cat

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 27 - Everybody wants to be a cat…**

England woke to a horrid sound. A wailing.

"Artie dude tell him! I don't want to be Princess Peach!"

England slowly opened his eyes. And regretted it instantly. Stars burst in his head. It felt as if some madman had shone a laser into his eyes.

It was the sun.

America stood over his bed and had opened the curtains. "Artie!"

"What?" England asked. God his head hurt so much, what in the name of Wimbledon had he been drinking?

"Super Mario Kart!" America told him by way of 'explanation'.

"What?"

"Never mind," America slouched back out, leaving the curtains wide open. "By the way…" America called back over his shoulder as an aside, "By the way, you need to get some pants on."

England sat up quickly at that and looked down.

The scream reverberated around the house.

Downstairs America slouched in and prepared to continue his argument with Prussia as to who was 'Princess Peach'. The two Nations looked up at the ceiling as England screamed and then shrugged at one another.

In the kitchen, Scotland and France were arguing over a toaster. They stopped briefly as they heard England scream. France giggled to himself, Scotland shook his head.

"Yer an awful awful man, Francy," he said wisely.

France smiled creepily.

England staggered off the bed and closed the curtains and then swooshed them open again.

In the driveway his beloved Bentley was being washed by a tall blond idiot wearing a Viking helmet, wellington boots and not much else.

"Stop touching my car!" England yelled and then realised Denmark couldn't hear him so he opened a window and yelled the refrain again.

Denmark looked around dumbly and then carried on.

England's next door neighbour peered over the fence, saw the naked Dane, did a double take and hurried inside.

England pulled on the nearest pair of trousers he could find. Unfortunately, they were France's.

"Damn him and his too tight denim," England muttered.

A further awful surprise greeted him in the bathroom.

England had thought about having a bath but there was an impediment to this plan. A large impediment.

England carefully closed the bathroom door and headed downstairs.

"Why is there a big Russian asleep in my bath?" he asked France and Scotland.

"Is this a joke?" Scotland asked.

"Wait! I know the punchline to this one!" America yelled from the living room. "Is it something like 'because he has no nose'?'"

"No! That's my dog has no nose…" England began to say.

"No! Really? That is terrible!" France declared.

"No! You imbeciles!" England yelled.

"It's a joke! I know this! He doesn't have a nose so he smells terrible!" America said, pleased with himself.

Prussia stared at him. "Are you going to play this game or what?" he asked.

"You mean Russia is in the bath because he smells?" France asked.

"Shush, are you trying to get us killed?" Scotland asked. He was still wearing a skirt and appeared to be baking shortbread.

"No! You utter gumboids! I'm not trying to tell a bloody joke! Wait… how did you know Russia was in the bath?"

"He slept in there last night. L'Amerique slept in his own room which is really mon room…" France sighed, "…Prusse slept on ze sofa. Danemark slept in ze car and I was going to…"

"Wait? Denmark slept in my car?" England looked appalled. "My… car?" he staggered backwards, clutching his heart.

"He loves zat car like a lover," France explained. "I was going to snuggle avec tu in your bed, mon cher," France continued when he realised England was distracted. "But you still had ze tattoos from Miss Biélorussie so I ran away."

England wasn't listening. Instead he slammed outside, went past the horse in the garden. Stopped, looked at it and then went on. "You! You slept in my car?" he shouted at Denmark.

Denmark spun round and sprayed England with the hosepipe he was carrying. "Duh?" he said dumbly. He was also wearing America's ipod thing.

England jumped back, wet through, "Take those bloody things out of your ears!" he yelled.

"What?"

"Take that ipod out of your ears!" England yelled.

"I can't hear you cos I'm listening to this!" Denmark yelled, swinging around again so England was drenched again.

England fought his way through the stream of water, snatched the hosepipe from Denmark and pulled the earphones out of the Dane's ears.

"Ow!"

"Did you sleep in my car?"

"Sure did!" Denmark nodded like a large nodding dog.

In fact he had all the appearances of a large stray dog. A large stray dog with a Viking helmet and wellington boots.

"Can you at least put some bloody clothes on? I hope you wore something in my car?" England said.

"Vikings don't wear pyjamas, dude."

England tried to shake this image away. He eventually realised he was still holding the hosepipe - which had now just reduced to a pathetic trickle. It summed up his whole life. He looked at it.

"I turned off ze tap, mon cher," France called from the kitchen.

England ignored him. He gingerly peered into the Bentley and then stepped back. "Why? Why? Why?" he began. He stopped and tried to pull himself together. He took a deep breath and began again. "Why is there a cat in my car?"

"Oh yeah! He slept there last night!" Denmark said and continued sponging down the car.

England erupted then. "What? Why is there a sodding cat in my car? Why did he sleep in there? Why are you bloody well cleaning my car? Stop touching it!" he snatched the sponge off Denmark.

"Dude! Not cool! He's a stray! He followed dude Russia in last night and slept with me. I'm cleaning your car cos it was dirty. Calm down."

"My car… was dirty…?"

"Yeah…"

"Cake?"

"No thanks."

"No, I mean was it cake?" England tried to ignore the giggling coming from the kitchen window as France and Scotland watched. He was tempted to turn the hosepipe on them but remembered that the tap was inside. "I'm sure I washed all the cake from it."

"No. It was ketchup."

"Ketchup?"

"Honestly, you need to calm down."

"Why was there ketchup on my car?"

"Honestly, England, it's gone now."

"And why was there a cat in my car? And why are you not wearing any pants? What is wrong with you lot? Why can you not wear normal bloody clothes when I'm talking to you? Why do you all have problems wearing pants for longer than a few hours?" England ranted. He opened the Bentley door.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" Denmark warned.

Denmark shook his head as England was attacked by a ball of angry fur.

"Aaargh!" England stepped back as a cat wrapped itself around his head.

"I think he likes you," Denmark said dozily and continued to sponge car shampoo onto England's car.

"Aaargh!" England danced around trying to extricate a large stray cat from his face. It was like the scene from Alien. The cat clung to his head and seemed to be eating his hair.

"Mmmphmmm!" England yelled.

"I was going to call it Sven" Denmark said and then yelled ear-splittingly, "Francy! Turn the tap back on!"

And so England got drenched for a second time as Denmark waved the hosepipe at him.

Russia emerged and the cat leapt into his arms. "Ah there you are!" Russia beamed. "Where have you been?"

"On my bloody face!" England gasped. There were bits of hair missing and his shirt collar was torn. He staggered back against the Bentley and got soaked again.

"Oh da!" Russia said beaming. "He must like you. You have a way with animals."

England wasn't sure about that.

"Well I have to go now. I have business with my boss," Russia said, swinging an axe merrily.

"No!" England yelled. "You can't just leave without your cat."

"He's not my cat."

"He's called Sven," Denmark told them.

"He's not staying here," England said, looking at the large tabby that was sat on the doorstep, licking some part of itself that England didn't want to think about.

"You would throw out a poor defenceless creature?" Russia looked appalled.

"It's hardly defenceless!" England protested.

Russia waved an axe in front of the dripping Englishman, "You will look after this cat, da?"

England nodded desperately.

Russia smiled and tootled off down the path whistling a tune.

England shivered and then sagged against the kitchen door.

The door opened, he fell in, the cat 'Sven' ran in and was immediately picked up by France and cooed over (the cat was, not England).

"Ah poor petit chat… He is half starved!" France purred at the cat and the cat purred back.

"No he's not!" England said. He stomped off upstairs to get dried. "We're going to take it to the Battersea Dogs Home and that's that!"

"You are so heartless!" France shouted.

"And will you two stop arguing about who's some princess or something?" England added to America and Prussia as he went past.

"Hey that's a point, dude. We do have to stop arguing. Me and Dude Den have to borrow some clothes man, so we can go get our medals," Prussia announced and yelled outside, "Dude Den! We have to get some pants on!"

"Why?" Den yelled back.

England stopped at the top of the stairs when he heard this, still sopping wet. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"We're going to Buckingham Palace, man!" Prussia yelled.

"Castle," America corrected him.

"Buckingham Castle!" Prussia corrected.

"Why?"

"To get those medals off…" here Prussia consulted America.

England was aghast when Prussia yelled, "…Queen Elizabeth the First."

"Second!" England shouted.

"Second." Prussia yelled.

"Why is she second?" Denmark yelled back.

"Dunno. Maybe she missed the bus."

England slammed back downstairs, "She's the second because she's the second Queen of that name, you imbeciles."

"I knew that," America said.

Prussia looked him up and down. "You need to calm down. Don't you have any Kings or Queens that are 'the Great' or anything?"

"Or 'the Good'?" Denmark yelled from outside.

"Or 'the Sexy'?" France interrupted, cuddling the cat.

"Or 'the Bruce'!" Scotland yelled.

"Like Springsteen!" America said.

England shook his head. They were all mad. All of them. The world had gone mad. Only he was sane. But he had to stop Prussia and Denmark from doing something stupid at the Palace and possibly ridiculing Her Majesty.

But first he had to change his clothes.

* * *

Later…

"If any of you gets anything so much as a hair or a crumb on this car's upholstery I will kill you!" England said through gritted teeth.

He was driving the Bentley.

France was sat in the passenger seat, holding his foot - the one with the cast on it - out of the window. England had no idea why. But he didn't question it. The less there was of France inside his beloved car the better.

America sat in the back with a large cardboard box. Occasionally the cardboard box moved. It contained a cat.

"Don't worry Franklin. You'll be looked after…" America whispered.

"Don't give it a name!" England hissed.

"You are very cruel," France said.

England wasn't interested in what France thought. He was wearing a flowery pantsuit belonging to France. So again he was feeling very uncomfortable wearing France's pants.

He said as much.

"Ah mon pantalons! Zay look so much better on me, mon cher!" France declared, waving at some poor lorry driver.

"Dude Artie, what did you say we can't get on the upholstery?" America asked.

England looked in the rear view mirror. "I said nothing."

"Oh that's okay then."

"I said you aren't to get anything on the upholstery!"

"Oh right."

"Have you?"

"Well not me exactly."

"Who then? There's only you and the CIA in the bloody back!"

"It was Franklin."

"For God's sake! I told you not to give it a name."

"Okay then… Jefferson. I could call him Jeff for short."

"No!"

"It should be Louis…ah oui…" France purred.

"Are you bloody kidding me?" England shouted. "And if you or that cat have done something in the back…" England threatened.

Immediately, a hand, a large hand in fact, rested on his shoulder. "I wouldn't threaten the Lieutenant-Colonel, Mr Kirkland. Or his cat."

"Ah Gaston! You are so cute when you are angry!" France said.

England seethed. "Well anyway, here's Battersea Dogs and Cats Home. We are going to take this cat into the Home and let someone else adopt him. Besides he belongs elsewhere with his proper owners, it's probably some poor little girl looking for him…" (Or some Mafia boss, England thought as he heard yowling from the back and the cardboard box shook) "…And besides, we can't possibly have any pets…"

* * *

Thirty minutes later…

"I don't bloody believe this!" England said as he carried a large box of felines to the car.

America was smiling. "We can call them Frank for Franklin, Jefferson or Jeff, George - as in Washington, Hammy for Hamilton…"

"I want to call one of zem 'Lafayette'," France declared.

"Oh God…" England said. "I bloody give up…" He banged his head repeatedly on the steering wheel…

They now had a total of six cats. England really had no idea how his life had turned out like this. No, actually in this case he did.

They had turned up to take one cat into the Rescue Centre, Alfred had been told exactly what the place was. He saw a box of five kittens who had all lost their mother and the Superpower had promptly burst into tears.

England had been horrified and the only way to mollify him was to adopt all of them. So they now had one cat - the one they had arrived with, along with a box of five kittens.

"At least call one of them Winston," England said with a sigh.

"What kind of a dumbass name is that?" America declared.

"Winston Churchill you utter idiot!" England yelled.

"Shut up, you'll make the kittens cry!" America said, hugging the cardboard box to his chest.

England started the engine. "For goodness' sake… It's because you started bloody crying that we're in this mess. And you, France. Throwing yourself on the ground wailing. Now we have 6 cats to look after."

"Five kittens and one cat who I shall call Clark Kent," America said. "We have to hand-rear them as well because they lost their mum," he added and his voice wavered. "We should call in at a grocery store and get some milk."

"No! We're going to be late. We need to get to the Palace and make sure Prussia and Denmark don't destroy the place…"

A large hand clamped on his shoulder. It hurt.

"I think we should get the milk, Kirkland," 'Gaston' rumbled.

"Damn and bloody blast…" England muttered but pulled into the car park of a grocery store anyway.

* * *

Shopping with France and America was a revelation. And not in a good way at all.

"Will you get a move on?" he shouted at them.

America pushed the trolley and piled it high with milk, baby milk ("Cos they're babies right?"), wine for France, DVDs, several Parenting magazines, pizzas and he was now hovering near the frozen food section. "Hey! Shall I get some icecream?"

"No! Now move!" England told him, trying but not succeeding in shifting the young American.

"I need some zings from ze pharmacy…" France said and hopped off.

England pulled him back, "Oh no you don't. I'm not buying a ton of flavoured condoms and lube."

Several customers stepped away from them and then around them.

"Ah you do not know how to have fun, mon ami," France said. "Not like us, eh Gaston?" he tried to put his arm through Gaston's. Gaston stepped away quickly. "He is my boyfriend!" France told a random woman shopper who quickly hurried down the next aisle.

America was loading the trolley with icecream, whilst England unloaded the frozen stuff back into the freezer. "No! It will defrost!"

"Why?" America looked aghast.

"We're going to the Palace to stop Prussia and Denmark from destroying a Grade I listed building and National treasure."

"Jeez. You need to calm down."

England shoved the trolley to the checkout.

"Aw man! Marmite! That's not even a food!" America yelled, holding up the offending jar.

"Eeet eez toxic!" France wailed.

"Shut up and get on with it!" England hissed at them.

They both cleared off. Leaving England to pay. America hurried back to the car. England hoped that the kittens and the cat (now with the names of Jeff, Frank, Hammy, George, Lafayette (that last one England particularly shuddered at) and Nelson (for the cat) had not crapped in his beloved Bentley. Someone would pay. Evidently though at the moment it was himself.

"187 pounds and 56 pence," the woman behind the counter said.

England stared at her. "We bought milk," he said disbelievingly.

"And 12 DVDs, four bottles of wine and an assortment of chocolate bars," the woman said.

England held up the marmite jar, "This was my only purchase. This is the only thing I came in for!"

The woman just raised an eyebrow, "Are you going to pay up or shall I call store security?"

England looked around. The CIA men had also scarpered he noted. "I'll pay," he sighed. He wondered as he pulled out his wallet if they would be in time to stop the utter carnage at the Palace…

 **To be continued...**


	28. On Her Majesty's Secret Service

**Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 28 - On Her Majesty's Secret Service**

England wondered if his life could ever get as bad as this.

Circumstances found him peering through the railings at Buckingham Palace with an effeminate Frenchman. His beloved Bentley was reduced to a playpen for an idiot American and six felines.

The security guards told England quite categorically that no more than four Nations were allowed inside Buckingham Palace at any one time. Absolutely and categorically. Even if the future of the human race depended on it.

England was outraged and shouted, yelled and then sobbed on France's shoulder. And then he wondered who the four Nations were? He knew two were Prussia and Denmark but who were the other two? He had left his degenerate brother in his kitchen baking shortbread. But was he really? England knew the Queen liked shortbread. Was this a ruse just to get into the Palace?

"You don't understand. We have to get in there to stop the Palace from possible demolition and the most assured embarrassment of her Majesty the Queen!"

But he and France were told to leave. The Head of Security had ignored England's protests.

"You know that there's a rule as to how many Nations are allowed in. That rule was made after last time. The East Wing has only just been refurbished and the Italian garden has only just been replanted. We never got that stain out of the carpet in the Blue Room and it had to be thrown out. That carpet was a gift from the Indian Nation to her Majesty Queen Victoria," the Head of Security told them.

France ignored him and was nonchalantly winking at the Palace guard behind him.

England's outrage reached Defcon 4, "I'm the bloody Nation! I should be allowed in to see Her Majesty!"

This earned them both an armed escort back out to the Mall with the rest of the hoi polloi (England's words).

* * *

"So how do we get inside?" England asked France as he ignored the tourists going past in their Union Jack hats.

France shrugged. "I do not know, mon ami. Perhaps zere is a guided tour, non?"

England looked at him aghast and then thought about it, and then bizarrely kissed him in his joy, "Yes, my creepy friend!" he said triumphantly. He realised what he'd done, quickly wiped his mouth and grimaced. But France had given him an idea.

"Oh mon cher!" France breathed.

But England hurried off, "You've given me an idea!" England shouted behind him.

"I can give you more zan zat, mon cher…" France breathed, once he'd caught up with England.

They stood at the rear of the Palace where a string of limousines and other luxury vehicles were going through the gates. England watched enviously. "All we have to do is get in one of those," he pointed out.

"Ah… leave it to me and my undoubtable charm!" France said.

In the end it wasn't so much as France's undoubtable charm that got them through the Palace gates but England's pickpocketing skill while France used his world famous distraction techniques.

"Simon Cowell and Cheryl Cole," the policeman looked at their security passes and then back at them. "Well you look a bit different than you do on the telly."

"Oh do you really think so?" France said, simpering.

"I thought you were a brunette?" the policeman said.

"I can be whatever you want, chuck!" France said in an utterly rubbish British Geordie accent.

England shook his head. "Are we allowed in or not?" he said, in what he hoped was a Simon Cowell-ish voice.

The policeman nodded and waved them through before France fluttered his false eyelashes again. The poor man looked utterly deflated. "Who'd have thought that Cheryl Cole would look like a bloke?" he muttered to himself. "And I swear she looks taller on telly…"

* * *

"People from Newcastle do not say 'chuck'," England hissed at France as they tried to saunter in.

"Stop telling me off!" France whined.

"Well stop being stupid. I have no idea why we had to steal their passes!"

"It was you who picked them!"

"It was you who decided to fling yourself at Simon Cowell and tell him you could be a star!"

"I could be!" France said.

"And you don't look anything like Cheryl Cole! Even with that lipstick."

"I am still a leetle shocked you can pickpocket!" France retorted.

"I was in the chorus line of Oliver once and a small ragamuffin showed me. As you well know. It has stood me in good stead." England told him. He almost went into a song and dance routine but decided against it as they neared the entrance. "Now try to act normal," he told France. He turned round when he realised there was no answer, to find the Frenchman wasn't there. "Damn and bloody blast where's he bloody gone?!" he said.

* * *

Later...

"Ah oui! I find that a bottle of chilled Chablis with a nice filet mignon cooked medium rare with a nice garlic sauce is ze way to go… of course if you want to impress zem even more zen you should just do what you said and give zem one of my friend's Yorkshire puddings avec what you call gravy…"

England had almost given up finding France until he heard these words spoken through an open window. England peered through the window, hidden in a rather prickly bush and stared in disgust at France, plastered in make-up, chatting to a Prince of the Realm.

England had been trawling up and down through the grounds of the Palace wondering where the bloody Frenchman had gone. He'd feared the idiot had been rumbled by the security. But obviously not.

He was about to call out. But found the idea of having a conversation with the said Nation and the Prince while he himself was stood in a bush and, he suspected in Corgi poo, was too undignified.

England skulked back from whence he had come, tried to saunter in through the door, was stopped again by a security guard and then instead of showing him his pass said loudly enough for everyone to hear, "Oh my word is that Gary Barlow?"

Everyone turned round and England ran in quickly. It never failed. He stopped, wiped his feet and then tried to remember where he could possibly have seen France.

He ran through several corridors, stopped to take a scone from a tray held by a butler who was on his way to somewhere or other - England didn't stop to ask - and ran on. He skidded to a stop when he heard France's laconic voice.

"…And zen I said to zem zat zay were scoundrels and I would thrash zem to within an inch of zere lives!" France said.

England turned left and found France leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette, drinking from a goblet of wine, talking to the Prince of Wales.

"Really? Well I'm certainly not a fan of bad architecture but I don't think the people responsible should be thrashed…" the Prince replied.

"You've never thrashed anyone in your bloody life!" England yelled. "Oh your Highness, Sir… I'm so sorry," he added quickly. "Was Francis bothering you? He certainly bothers me."

"I say Arthur old chap! What on earth are you wearing?" the Prince asked.

England looked down at himself. He was still wearing Francis' flowery pantsuit. Certainly not a look he would normally sport. He was incensed that nobody asked such a question of France himself. "I'm wearing France's clothes…" he said lamely, and began to eat his scone.

"I really think you might have lost the plot, old boy," the Prince continued.

England glared at France, who was sipping his red wine with an unconcerned air, as if his very downfall was absolutely nothing to do with him.

"But you know the rules. You shouldn't even be here. No more than…" the Prince began to say.

"…Yes yes we know… no more than four Nations are allowed in the Palace…" England sighed.

"But you can tootle along and see Camilla later. You know she always thinks you are an absolute hoot, Arthur!" the Prince added.

England finished off his scone and wiped his hands on his trousers (he had no clean handkerchief - a source of great shame and something he saw the Prince had noticed) and grimaced. He really didn't like being 'an absolute hoot'. It implied he wasn't taken seriously. "Well… we'll see about that…" he said resolutely and strode off.

He spun round and shouted, "France! Are you coming or not you old tart?"

"Ah oui!" France dislodged himself from the wall and hopped after him, "Au revoir, your Highness, I will catch up avec vous later… I also am a hoot!"

"He really really annoys me. He always has. Stuck-up little twerp. I remember when I gave him his first bloody sword…" England muttered to himself, as they went through the maze of corridors. He was still cross at the Prince of Wales. "Bloody Plantagenets," he said finally.

"I zink you are zinking of ze wrong Prince, mon cher," France said cautiously.

"Oh right… not Edward the bloody third. No…"

"Eeek!" France almost fell over in shock. "Edward the Third? Where?" he looked around wildly and would have hid if there was anywhere to hide.

England ignored him and carried on. "Now where's the bloody throne room?"

* * *

Later...

"You know you're not allowed on the expensive chairs, Arthur and erm… oh… France." The person telling them this was another Prince of the Realm. One who England would have called too young to be talking to his elders like this. But then, England being over 900 years old, everyone was young. Apart from France, France was definitely older than him.

"Look, we're only here to make sure that Prussia and Denmark don't rip the place to shreds," England protested.

"Well I'm sorry but Grandmama says no more than four Nations are allowed…"

"… Yes yes I know all that. By the way, who are the other two Nations?" England asked. "Come on you can tell me, your old Uncle Arthur…" he said, winking. "I'll give you a gobstopper!"

"Oh dear! I'm so very sorry I have got wine on your chair!" France said, standing up and looking at the gold satin upholstery. "Will it stain?"

"For God's sake, France!" England hissed at him.

They were sat in an ante-room. The room in which the investitures were taking place was through some double doors and England had tried and failed several times to enter. "It's a matter of national security!" had not worked.

"White wine will get ze stain out! You look like a man who is handy with a cloth," France said to the young Prince. "Go bring me a bottle of white wine, a mop and a cloth."

"France! This is the second in line to the throne! Does he look like a cleaner?"

"Oui… he does," France shrugged. "I do not know. My royals always looked more royal."

"You mean with their bloody silly wigs and stuff?"

"Yours wore wigs as well!"

"You're incorrigible!" England said, utterly exasperated. "Oh, His Highness is gone!" He seemed utterly amazed that the Prince had not hung around to be compared to a cleaner.

"Ah perhaps now we have got rid of the young Princeling, we can sneak in through ze back way, non?"

"What back way?" England asked.

France winked. "Hold my arm, mon cher. I have lost my crutch somewhere…"

"No, I bloody well will not. And you shouldn't drink so much. Oh my God, look at what you've done to that chair. It was a Georgian antique!" England said.

"Shush!" France said, putting his fingers to England's lips, "You talk too much…"

France led him or more likely, they walked arm in arm (England feeling extremely silly and conspicuous as they did so) through the Palace and came to a very innocuous looking door. "Through zat."

"What?"

"Zat."

"What on earth are you on about?"

"Eet leads to an inner corridor which leads to ze investiture room, mon cher. Ze servants use it."

"How in the name of my Uncle Merlin do you know this?"

"When I visited avec Emperor Napoleon the Third and Empress Eugenie. Do you not remember?"

"Napoleon?"

"Not Ze Napoleon, not ze great Napoleon. Ze other one."

"Ah the nephew! Ah yes I remember. We were allies then…" England shuddered.

For a minute, they avoided each other's eyes.

"It's best we forget about Crimea… who knows if Russia is listening," England whispered.

France nodded, looking around nervously.

They went in and found themselves in a corridor, dark and dank that England suspected had not been used since.. Well, since Victorian times. "Are you sure about this? There's not much room… can you get over there and stop holding my bloody hand?"

"I do not like ze dark."

"Oh shut up… You do most of your work in the dark."

"I do not know what you mean, mon cher."

"Yes you bloody do. You bloody tart," England hissed as they shuffled along, uncomfortably close.

"Zere is a door just around here…" France said.

With that England tried the doorknob, amazed that France was right. "Right, be quiet France and we'll see if we can sneak in at the back. I'm a master at this, after all I was the top spy in the War! We'll try to stop Prussia and that idiot Denmark from causing utter chaos and probably causing some poor woman to scream…"

The door opened and they fell through in a jumble of arms and legs.

England tried to get up but found France was on top of him.

"They can't keep their hands off each other!" England heard someone say.

England shoved France off him and got to his feet. He found a whole room of assorted VIPs, State Officials and Royal family members all staring at him. And France. In fact they were staring at France the most.

Someone, a woman, screamed.

England turned to look at France. He saw now why the woman had screamed. "Will you pull your bloody pants up?" he hissed at France.

France did but didn't seem unduly embarrassed at all. This annoyed England even more.

England pulled up a chair and sat down quickly and motioned to everyone to carry on with the ceremony. France hopped up and stood next to him.

"Sit down," England hissed at him.

"Quelle?"

"What?"

"What?"

"Sit down! Erm… Asseyez-vous!" England finally dredged up from his schoolboy French.

France beamed.

England looked around and noticed that everyone. Even Her Majesty was looking at them. He tried to smile.

"Arthur? Are you alright? You do look odd," came a voice next to him.

He almost fell off his chair when he realised he was sat next to the Prime Minister. "Mrs Prime Minister!" he exclaimed.

"Are you drunk?" she asked.

England was about to say something.

"She has some nerve!" France whispered in his ear. "She looks like the haunted art gallery owner in a Scooby Doo episode."

England punched him on the arm.

They were sat almost at the back of a large ballroom type room (it was actually the ballroom) where a lot of people were sat watching various other people receive medals. Mainly OBEs, MBEs and 'silliness' as France called it. Their names called up by a man in a strange costume (France's words). But no wig (France was disappointed with this).

And then the fateful words:-

"For services to the country in the face of danger, showing resolute courage and bravery… Gilbert Beilschmidt and Mathias Kohler…"

England peered round and saw the two 'idiots' striding up between the lines of chairs, grinning like loons.

Surely, he must be dreaming? He pinched himself and then asked France to pinch him. France did so. He then asked the Prime Minister to pinch him. She refused.

"Yo!" Gilbert said to everyone as he went up to the front of the room, where Her Majesty was waiting.

England held his head in his hands. He wondered whether he should actually get up and say something to save the Queen from being embarrassed by these two imbeciles. He was actually amazed to see they were almost sensibly dressed. Although on Denmark the suit he was wearing was clearly too short for him, whilst on Prussia, the suit he was wearing made him look even more tramp-like (Prussia really didn't suit anything but either a military uniform or the gold lamé jacket he sometimes wore when he pretended to be a game-show host).

"Where did they get those clothes? They look like a pair of vagrants," England whispered to France.

"Zay are yours," France replied. "You whined so much about me throwing your clothes out to ze charity shop zat I went out and bought zem back."

England hit him.

There was a brief tussle and they fell to the floor fighting.

It was perhaps for the best that England did not get to see Prussia and Denmark receive the George Medal for bravery. Instead, Arthur and France were dragged out by security. On his way through the room, England noted the other two Nations in the room.

Germany was shaking his head and writing something down in a notebook. England saw on the binding the title "Why I'm better than England". Beside him was Italy who was staring open-mouthed at France and England.

* * *

"This is all your bloody fault!" England told France as he shook himself.

They stood in the Palace courtyard. The ignominy of it all. The security guards had said because he was the Nation they would show a little consideration and not throw him all the way out of the Palace grounds. As if he were a mad uncle. Which he kind of was.

"My whole life is falling apart because of you! I would never have been thrown out if it wasn't for you! I'd be inside eating cucumber sandwiches with Her Majesty. Instead I'm stood out here with a lipstick-wearing Frenchman. How can they get a bloody George Medal? For courage? It's utterly ridiculous, isn't it Tinkerbell? You agree, I know you do!"

France stepped back. It was always a dangerous sign of England's wavering mental health when Tinkerbell was mentioned.

They'd been stood outside now for half an hour while England charged up and down ranting and raving.

France shook his head, "Ah mon ami. Eet eez terrible," he said, trying to sound commiserate. As it was, he didn't really care. He didn't think it was his fault at all. He thought that the British were just plain weird and outdated. He was also a little disappointed that there hadn't been more uniformed men to debag or chances to become naked. He lit another cigarette and then threw the match in a nearby bush.

"Littering! You heathen!" England yelled. Clearly losing his mind. "Just pick that up!"

France shrugged and leaned over, wiggled his bottom at England, "I know you only want to see my bottom, mon cher!" he said sexily and then said suddenly as he straightened up, looking through the window, "Ah! I can see young Gilbert and Den! Zay are eating cucumber sandwiches and drinking tea! From teacups!"

"No!" England hurried up to him.

France ducked down, "Hide behind here so they do not see us!"

England did and then peered through a bush, hidden as they were, they could see straight into the State Apartments.

"Doilies! They're using doilies!" England said utterly amazed.

"Eet eez terrible… and china teacups…" France lamented.

"I can't believe it!"

"Shush mon cher, zay will hear you…"

"And Battenburg cake!" England said.

"Battenburg…" France repeated sadly.

"It's a travesty!" England exclaimed. "I'm going in there!"

"Non! I implore you!" France said dramatically.

But England had already climbed onto the windowsill and was trying to force the sash opening.

"Oh well…" France said with a wave of his hand.

England gave one shove to the bottom of the window and the old rotten wood gave way. He promptly fell into the room, amongst a shower of glass and found himself looking up at his Monarch, the German and Danish Ambassadors, Prussia, Denmark, Italy and Germany (who was shaking his head).

"Dude…" Denmark said. He looked impressed.

 **To be continued…**


	29. King for a Day

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 29 - King for a Day**

"You got kicked out of the Palace? Aw man!" America looked delighted when he saw their dejected faces as England and France approached the car.

He was leaning out of the car window and grinning moronically.

"No of course not," England said. "I was not kicked out of the Palace. I was merely asked to leave by her Majesty."

"We were kicked out," France said sadly.

"Yo! Did yer see Gilbert and Den?" America yelled.

"Yes we did." England replied. He didn't really want to talk. "Can we just go home and get a cup of tea?"

"Did they get their medals then?" America asked.

England didn't answer but stared in disbelief. His Bentley, his most prized possession (which even included his ancient sword, Excalibur, and his wand) was covered in cat hair.

"Well I got news as well, dudes!" America told them.

"Oh? You've started a new business? 'Alfie's Mobile Cats Home'? 'Cats 'R' Us'?" England asked.

"Zat is very good, tres bien, mon cher."

"Oh shut up, France and stop bloody touching me!"

"No! But they're great ideas, Artie!" America yelled.

"Will you stop yelling?" England yelled. "I have a headache."

"Are you drunk?" America asked, in a quieter voice. He looked worried as well he might - drunk England was never good.

"Zat is what his Prime Minister asked him," France said, getting in the car, and placing two kittens on his lap. "Which of zese is Lafayette?" he asked America.

"Zat one. I mean that one…" America answered, placing another kitten in France's lap. "Hey! I just spoke French!"

"Non you did not."

"So what news do you have?" England asked as he got in the driver's seat. Uncomfortably, he noticed 'Gaston' or 'Philippe' or whoever it was, sat in the passenger seat and was staring at him.

"It's for Francy-pants," America said.

England frowned and looked at him in the rear view mirror. But all he could see was a kitten sat on America's head.

"Really?"

"Yep." America, who had no indoor voice at all, turned to France and said, "I did what you said, dude."

France, who winced at being called 'dude' but was too busy cooing at 'Lafayette', just nodded.

"Did what?" England asked, suspicious.

"Nothing."

"Is it anything to do with you going back home?" England asked. "Because really, you should be going back to your own country at some stage you know. You being the Nation of the United States of America and all…I mean surely they'll be missing you?"

America frowned but instead began saying, "Aw, who wants their tummy rubbed? Who wants their tummy rubbed? You do? You do?"

England hoped that America was talking to one of the kittens and not France or Gaston or Philippe. "So you will be going home soon?" England asked again as he started the engine.

America didn't answer but instead opened the door, "Yo! Do you need a ride?" he asked the spectral figure stood there.

"Oh no," England muttered. He had really hoped they could get away without the ghost of the dead King who had followed them all the way from the Palace.

America opened the door and the King got in.

* * *

Later…

"I'm just saying that a MacDonalds would go some way to cheering us all up!" America said for the twentieth time.

"And I'm telling you that no, we are not going to a MacDonalds restaurant!" England argued back.

"But duuuuude!" America whined. "This King Charlie wants to go, don't you, man?" he indicated the space next to him.

"Oh bugger…" England said. He had really hoped that they could ditch King Charles I somewhere but he seemed to have no intention of allowing himself to be ditched. England also wondered how the ghost of King Charles I would fair on the streets of modern London.

The King did not answer America. He didn't look particularly happy about being in the back of the 'carriage' squashed in between France, a large CIA man and America. (France was sat on the CIA man's lap - much to Philippe's or Louis' or Gaston's distaste, whichever one it was.) He also had several kittens climbing over him. For a 17th century King this was most unbecoming.

"We named Maryland after your wifey," America told the King, nudging him. "It's one of my favourite states."

The King had still not said anything and England was wondering if he was still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. England said this aloud. (In fact, England wondered if he himself was suffering from it.)

"Why? Cos of Francy-pants? I know I've felt post-traumatically distressed after being with Francy but the dude's not saying a word," America declared in what England construed as being a non-professional capacity.

"Because he was beheaded," England explained slowly.

America whistled slowly. "Wow. You're really rough with your bosses," he said.

"Oui," France said and added dramatically, "I will always remember poor Louis…"

"Anyway…" England said, "Back to reality…"

"So can we?" America asked.

"What?"

"Go to MacDonalds? Stick with the program, dude."

"Oh for goodness sake, no!" England yelled and then felt the CIA man next to him turn to stare at him. "Well…" he began to say as he felt a large hand rest on his own on the gearstick. If it was France's hand he would think it was being flirtatious but this felt threatening.

"Do you want to go to MacDonalds, Mr King?" America asked King Charles I. "There ya go!" America said, without waiting for an answer. "We have to do what a King says."

"Ah… Louis Louis Louis…" France was still saying sadly, looking out of the window and flicking his hair in a 'dramatique' way that made England want to throw up. A single tear rolled down his cheek and he hugged a kitten to his chest. In France's anxiety, he'd even forgotten to fondle the dead King's knee.

England shook his head but nevertheless pointed the car in the general direction of the nearest MacDonalds with America acting as navigator.

"Left, then left, then left…"

"Are you sure? That takes us round in a circle?" England asked as they set off.

"No not that left, the other left!"

"There isn't another left! There is either left or left!" England shouted.

"What's the other word for left?" America asked.

"Gauche," France answered.

The King nodded.

"Gosh?" America looked at him sceptically. "That doesn't sound right."

France shook his head. It was pointless attempting to teach the young Nation any French. It was almost as pointless as teaching England. It always ended in tears - usually his own.

"What in God's name are you on about?" England yelled.

"I mean, not left."

"You mean 'right'?" England said.

"Oh yes! Right!" America said as if he'd suddenly had an epiphany.

England sighed. It reminded him painfully of the time he'd tried to teach America the points of the compass. He sometimes still woke in the night sweating and panicking that America, with the largest military might in the world, called North 'up', South 'down', East 'right' and West 'left' and for some reason a fifth which was 'home'. England had still never got to the bottom of that.

America was reading the directions from some Satnav application on his phone. But he was also showing something to France which made France giggle.

England wrinkled his nose in disgust. He hoped it wasn't another bloody Youtube video of him in that restaurant. He didn't think it was good that it had garnered 25 thousand 'hits'. Whatever that meant.

France was still giggling. The sound made England's skin crawl. What he didn't know was that France and America had conspired in a conspiracy so audacious, so indecent and so… funny (at least to them) that he would explode with rage. Although this was to happen much later.

"Left, then right, then second right then up the road. I'll have two chicken nugget happy meals, large fries, large coke and a McFlurry," America told England.

"Hmm… well I really think that is way too much sugar for you, don't you agree, Agent Gaston?" England said to the CIA man next to him.

"My name is not Gaston," 'Gaston' said.

"Ah right!" England looked triumphantly at France in the rear-view mirror.

France shrugged in his annoying Gallic manner.

"What is it then?" England asked.

"It's classified."

"Cool!" America yelled and fist-pumped the air. He accidentally hit the King instead. Who looked very hurt. Clearly, King Charles' afterlife wasn't going so well for him. "I think we need to get something for Mr King here. He looks sad!"

"He looks sad because you almost punched him out!" England said and drew up to the drive-through window. "Did Russia really actually drive through one of these things? I mean actually drive through as in…?"

"Yeah!" America's eyes shone.

"Anyway…" England shook himself back to reality. "Erm… Two chicken nugget happy meals, large erm chips…" He told the bored looking youth behind the counter.

"Fries!"

"…fries… a coke, a tea a proper tea… oh never mind… France, anything?"

"Non! Eet eez le crap!"

"Gaston… erm whatever? No? Erm your other friend in the back? No? Your Majesty?" he looked over his shoulder at the King, who was nursing a black eye. Also his wig was askew. England doubted that the King had ever had to put up with such degeneracy before. Apart from when he was beheaded by Cromwell of course. England made a note to have a word with him later. He really hoped there wasn't a 'later' and that the King would disappear at some stage.

The King frowned and whispered something in French to France.

France said, "His Majesty says he would like to try a Big Mac." France looked severely uncomfortable as he said this. As if this was the most outlandish thing he had ever heard.

England shrugged. The ghost of Queen Victoria had once been in his car and had insisted on going to a Starbucks.

"And a Big Mac," England added to the order. "Does anyone have any money?" he asked around.

America rooted in his pockets and produced a broken Action Man toy, a strip of gum and several dollars.

France shook his head.

The King had some gold coins but he was urged to put these away. England suspected, however, that they would be collectors' items on Ebay. He resolved to have a quiet word later.

It was 'Not Gaston' who had the money.

England was apologising profusely to the uninterested youth sat at the till. "I'm so sorry I don't have any money. You see these aren't my pants. I'm wearing someone else's pants. Someone I know of course, I don't wear strangers' pants. And I left my wallet at home. Unless I left it at the Palace… Her Majesty you see…"

The youth wasn't interested in England's pants clearly, instead he said, "Look, I just want 12 pounds 32 pence."

"Yes of course…" England turned to 'Not Gaston' who handed him a few notes.

"I'll need a receipt for that," 'Not Gaston' told him in a deep rumbly voice.

All in all it was to be expected, England thought. Another embarrassing day, culminating in a disappointing cup of tea. At least America seemed happy. The King also seemed happy with his 'Big Mac' although he turned his nose up at the offer of a 'fry' from America. The McFlurry also seemed to vex the royal dead person. England couldn't remember if ice-cream had been introduced by 1630 or not. He also tried to ignore the crumbs and smears on the upholstery. He would get America and his CIA bodyguards to valet the car tomorrow.

* * *

"We're back," he told Scotland as they walked in through the door.

"Aye I see yer are. Yer a daft laddy so ye are," Scotland told him. He was still wearing a pinny and had clearly been busy. There was enough shortbread on the table to feed the 4th Highland Bagpipe Army. If such a thing existed.

England sat down with a flump. "It's been awful, Hamish," he confessed.

"Aye, I heard," Scotland said mysteriously. "What's daft Charlie doing here?" Scotland pointed at the King, who walked in after them. The King held a lace handkerchief to his nose as if someone had broken wind.

"He's staying with us," America announced. "Come on and I'll show you Pokemon," he added and motioned to the King to follow him into the lounge. The two CIA men trailed them and stood guard outside the door.

Hamish then raised a shaggy ginger eyebrow at the amount of felines now at his feet purring loudly. "What's this? I thought yer'd gone to get rid of that cat?"

England nodded wearily. "I did. The boy and France both had hysterics and I had to bring that lot home…"

"Zay have names. Jeff, Frank, Lafayette, George, Hammy and zis…" here France picked up the adult cat, "…eez Nelson."

"None of them are called Donald? Or Malcolm?" Scotland asked, looking accusingly at his brother.

England shrugged, "It's nothing to do with me."

Scotland untied his pinny from his waist and threw it to the floor, "That's it for me then," he said. "Yer've taken advantage of my services too much and hurt ma feelings! I'm oota here." He stopped and turned to look at his brother (who was trying to conceal his surprise and glee at this turn of events - although he had no idea what 'services' his brother had rendered), "And by the way," Scotland added, "I didnae care for the way you stole all those scones from Her Majesty. It's not becoming for a Nation. I wouldnae ha' done that!"

England had no idea what Scotland was talking about. "I merely ate one scone!" he protested.

But there was more.

"Oh yes and there's a visitor in the lounge. He wants to see you aboot something important. To do with Russia…" With that Scotland turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

"He has such a musical voice..." France murmured.

England almost danced with joy but then remembered the ominous words about Russia. "One Nation down… two to go," he said to himself. He ignored France who was busy cooing to the cats and pouring cream into bowls.

He went into the lounge to find that three of the kittens had already followed America and were sat on him while he showed King Charles his games machine contraption.

"So who wants to see me?" England said, resigning himself to some new idiocy.

He soon found out - Italy was suddenly clinging to his arm and talking a hundred miles an hour.

"Mr England! You have to help me! I keep getting phone calls from Mr Russia. He thinks he owns me now and my restaurant or just me! I'm scared really really really scared… he keeps chanting down the phone! Is it a curse like the one he put on Mr Japan? Will I have a poorly tummy like Mr Japan in 18 years time? Prussia said it was just a recipe for pirozkhi but I didn't think so. It didn't sound like it. There was no pasta! Fratello said I was stupid for letting Mr Russia invest but I didn't know what else to do! And when I stayed with Germany last night in the German Embassy which is so clean and shiny it made my eyes hurt, Mr Russia rang there and the Germans got all upset and then I tried to calm them down! Did you know that there is no German word for fluffy? I didn't realise this until I told Luddy that Mr Russia was really nice and fluffy, but I don't really think that. I think he's very big and very scary. Now I don't know what to do!"

England shrugged him off. "I have no idea how I can help you, Italy. He just offered to erm… invest in your business I think…"

"Is that it? Do you think so?" Italy's eyes were wide open for once.

"Yes that's it. Now goodbye, nice to see you and all that…" England ushered him out of the door, past France, who was switching on the kettle, and finally shoved the blubbering Italian out of the kitchen door.

"So when are you going back to Paris?" England asked France. "You can take Lafayette with you."

France didn't answer the question, instead he said, "You have a date tonight."

"No I don't. I'm having a long soak in the bath and a read of the BBC Gardeners World magazine with a cup of Yorkshire Tea."

"I do not wish to hear of your perversions, Angleterre!" France said, bending down and covering the kittens' ears as if they would be offended. "But you have a date and you must go!"

"Yeah dude! You really do!" came America's voice from the lounge.

"And you have to go back to Washington!" England yelled back.

"Washington in County Durham?" France looked appalled.

"Are you high?" England replied.

France shrugged, "Always."

"I'm not going on a bloody date. I've had enough of dates. I've been arrested, in fights, married off to mad Belorussians… oh my God, she's not listening is she? Covered in tomatoes, had guns shoved in my face and nearly fell off a dragon. No more."

"Ah well… she will be very disappointed."

"Who?"

France didn't answer this particular question but instead appealed to England's ultimate horror - of being unchivalrous to a lady. "If you are not at the Three-Legged Duck in one hour, then the poor woman will think she has been stood up!" France looked inordinately sad about this.

"I hate you," England said simply. His dream of a quiet evening fast dissolving.

* * *

Upstairs…

England realised he did not want to go on a date in France's 'pantalons'. In fact, he didn't want to wear France's 'pantalons' any longer. He eventually found a suit belonging to America that just about fit him. In fact, he could remember buying it for America. The memory brought tears to his eyes as he recalled telling the 'boy' that he had been looking like a 'scruff' and that he 'should dress better as it had reflected badly on both of them'. England sighed and quickly brushed away the tears. The 'boy' was a good chap really, he thought.

The suit was slightly too big for him but that didn't matter. He had no idea who he was meeting. Only there seemed to be some sort of collusion going on between America and France.

He was right. There was.

Downstairs, France and America were laughing over their 'inventiveness' on a certain online dating app. "Dynamic middle-aged man…" America read out and collapsed on the floor, laughing. "Oh my God. I love this Tinder app!"

"…Aged 39… height 6 foot one, body of a God…" France read on and laughed.

"Yeah 39 and 900! Body of a decrepit Nation. He could be 6 foot one when he's in his 1960s platform shoes!" America said, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"…Interests are extreme ironing, abseiling whilst embroidering pillowcases, exploring new beverages." France read out.

"…Seeks men or women or people of a neutral gender for a lasting relationship with doilies and teacups." America was especially pleased by that last bit.

"…No weirdos, Russians or rodeo riders."

"…Absolutely no clowns." America said and then added, "I put that in later."

France nodded. It seemed to make sense. "He is afraid of clowns. It eez the red wigs." France said wisely.

"…Financially solvent with large kitchen and six cats." America said. "I added the cats in just now." America added as if this was important.

"Who answered zis nonsense?" France asked. He couldn't quite believe that anyone would answer this dating profile.

"He sounds dreamy," King Charles I interrupted. The King was playing Call of Duty against one of the CIA men.

America ignored him and said, "Someone calling themselves LuckyInLove."

"Not so lucky, non? And what name did we give Arthur?"

"Who do you think?" America showed France the screen. "It's the same as the picture I used, dude."

France's eyebrows shot up to his forehead and he smiled.

* * *

England broke into a run when he realised he was going to be late and then wished he hadn't. "You've got to be bloody kidding me…" he said when he recognised the figure stood waiting for him. He wondered if he could slope off. Too late. He'd been spotted.

"Oh. My. God." A familiar voice all but screeched. "Arthur freakin' Kirkland! You're not Gary Barlow!"

"Poland…" England staggered to a stop and swore vengeance on the two Nations who had conspired against him.

 **To be Continued...**


	30. On the Town

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory,imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 30 - On the Town**

"Well, Arthur…" Poland jumped up onto the barstool and looked at England through immaculate false eyelashes.

"Oh dear…" England groaned. He sat down and ordered a beer from the sarcastic looking barman who raised an eyebrow at Poland's pink leather trousers and gold purse.

"So tell me what you're doing here. I thought you were with France?"

"We're not a bloody couple!" England half yelled and then quickly shut his mouth.

Poland looked at him and then turned to the barman, "I'll have a margarita, please honey."

The barman obviously wasn't expecting to be called 'honey' by a Polish man in pink trousers, a fluffy jumper and high heels. He hesitated.

"Don't know what one is? Honestly, what kind of country is this, Arthur?" Poland said. "What beer is that, Arthur?"

"It's a Gold Top," England said, eyeing the froth. "You might not like it."

"Because it's too manly, sweetie?" Poland laughed.

England shuddered. Being called 'sweetie' by Poland was something every Nation - even Russia - had to endure. Most of them liked it though. "Do you have to be so…"

"Gay?" Poland asked loudly.

England closed his eyes. Why did Poland have to be conspicuous? "No, I meant loud," England replied.

Poland clapped him hard on the shoulder. He was surprisingly strong. He had large hands - beautifully manicured with pink nail polish and now subtly crossed his legs. He grinned at England in a spacey way that made England uncomfortable. Most of the Nations made England feel uncomfortable. But especially Poland, although the Pole came way down below Russia, Belarus, France, Germany or Italy. At least Poland wasn't violent, liable to divest of his clothes, tell him he was useless, cry at him or re-enact a sword battle with the pool cues from the nearby pool table. All possible with any of the afore-mentioned Nations.

"You're such a boring fart, Arthur!" Poland told him.

"Why are you here anyway?" England asked him.

"Why am I here? On a date of course! Do you have amnesia?"

"No. But I thought you were seeing Lithuania," England asked.

"Ah. I am. But you know… Gary Barlow…" he said this with a dreamy smile.

The barman looked around the bar as he placed the cocktail in front of him. "Gary Barlow?"

"No sweetie. He thinks he's Gary Barlow…" Poland indicated England, pointing at him with his cocktail umbrella.

"No way!" the barman said.

"No I don't! I didn't set that bloody thing up. It was Alfred and Francis."

"Yes blame them. Just like you always do!" Poland replied, sipping his drink, his wily cunning green eyes looked England over as he was a particularly interesting specimen.

"I am blaming them because this is their fault!" England protested. He took a big gulp of beer.

"I hope you're not going to get roaring drunk and get into a tomato fight, Arthur," Poland said, wagging a finger at him in his most campish manner possible.

England sighed. He knew Poland was just trying to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible. The Pole knew, absolutely knew that the Englishman hated scenes of any kind. "That wasn't my fault. That was Spain…" he hissed.

"Ah Antonio… How is he?"

"I don't know! Weren't you and Ukraine and Hungary supposed to be in Benidorm with him last week?"

"Ah yes Benidorm!" Poland started laughing. And kept laughing.

England wondered if he could slither from his bar stool and run.

"Well? What happened in Benidorm?" England asked. Hoping that this would distract the Pole from asking about his own private life. It was like distracting a hungry wolf with a choice steak.

"Benidorm was such fun! Oh. My. God! You really should have come with us, Arthur!" (England physically shuddered at this.) "We really know how to live! First of all we had a spa day. Katya and I had our nails done. Lizzie went off to do archery in the gym…"

"They did archery in the gym?" England asked. He wished he hadn't.

Poland put a hand on his arm. "Oh sweetie, you're such an innocent sometimes. Of course not!"

England wanted to say something but decided it was best if he was quiet. Perhaps if Poland talked enough then he might be able to slope off. He was thinking up suitable revenge on America and France for getting him into this date.

"Wasn't Antonio there?" England asked, taking another gulp of beer.

Poland looked at him worriedly. He'd heard about England's alcoholic tendencies and didn't really relish having to carry him home. Not that he couldn't. Poland, despite being small and slight, was actually tough and pretty strong. He just didn't want to break a nail.

"Yes he was. But the great lummox forgot his matador outfit!"

England was about to ask why Spain needed his matador outfit but decided against it. Sometimes it was better off not knowing.

"We went shopping. Katya bought a sombrero for Braginski. I cannot wait to see him in that!"

England winced. Nobody called Russia anything but 'Russia' or 'Mr Russia' or 'Sir', apart from his sisters. He had no idea how Poland got away with calling him 'Braginski'. He hoped Russia wasn't anywhere listening.

"We had tapas. It was very warm," Poland smiled. As an East European, he wasn't used to warmth. "We drank some sangria. Tony got us in to an embassy party in Madrid. Lizzie beat some guys at darts. Some people get really upset when they're beaten by a girl. Not that I would ever call Lizzie a girl. Would you?"

England shook his head quickly. But then realised his opinion was not being sought.

"…Portugal turned up. He's a bit boring sometimes isn't he? Don't you and he have an alliance on the go?" Poland, like most Nations managed to make 'alliance' sound positively filthy.

England didn't respond but drained his pint and ordered another. Together with a bag of cheese and onion crisps.

"We've all decided you drink too much," Poland observed. As he was telling England further stories about driving a golf cart into a swimming pool at an embassy party, Portugal and Spain arguing about Franco, and Katya tango-ing with some poor hapless German consulate, he was checking his diamante-encrusted iphone which never seemed to stopped buzzing. He also kept giggling and tapping out some message after first glancing at England. England suspected the messages were about him as he could see Poland mouthing the words 'drunk', 'imbecile' and 'boring' to himself as he wrote these.

"I do not drink too much! In fact, I don't think I drink enough!" England protested.

Poland glanced at him but continued the story. England had zoned out while eating his crisps.

"And then, oh my God, we had to stop Spain and Portugal from fighting. With tomatoes. And then Lizzie got a call from Austria to say he'd got on the wrong flight. He was going to Hamburg, but ended up in Beirut and then because he's such a klutz he got on another wrong flight and was in Marseilles. Lizzie had to go and get him. And then guess what?"

England almost fell off his barstool. "What?" he asked looking round, confused.

Poland thought that England was just answering his question and so continued, "And then Lizzie saw your cake on the news. I mean, really! So her and Austria got the plane here. Katya and I thought about coming as well but there was this party at the German Embassy and they know how to party!"

England doubted this.

"…And Spain refused to come with us! Can you believe it?"

"Yes."

Poland ignored him. "He said he had a paella emergency!"

England snorted. Clearly, Spain had more sense than England ever thought possible.

"Are you going to buy me another drink?" Poland asked him.

England thought about it and put his hand in his pocket for his wallet. He actually wondered why on earth Poland couldn't buy his own drinks.

"Can you believe him?" Poland asked the barman. "He won't buy me a single drink!"

"Are you two together?" the barman asked.

Poland started laughing.

England, blushing, was pulling out his wallet. "No… God no. Absolutely most definitely not…"

"He lives with a French guy," Poland confided to the barman.

"We are not living together!" England yelled.

"Yes you are."

"Well… we are. But we're not actually… you know living together."

"But you are living together?" the barman asked, confused.

"Yes, but we're not." England said, pulling out some notes from his wallet.

Poland turned to the barman, "See?"

England gave up.

It was almost a relief when Scotland walked in with Russia half an hour later. This was in the middle of Poland telling England about the visit to the strippers. England was wincing about how Katya had booed the strippers (England didn't ask what gender and was actually ashamed he'd ever been on a date with the Ukrainian) when Scotland bopped him over the head with a pool cue. "Hey! Arthur! Do yer have any change for the pool table?"

"Oh no…"

Poland looked Scotland up and down, "That skirt is so you, Hamish," he told him.

"It's a kilt!" Scotland told him.

"Is it, honey? Well aren't you just the sweetest?" Poland replied. England doubted this was true.

Russia was waving his pool cue around as if it were a sword. He was also wearing a sombrero. This in itself was utterly strange. It also made him look even bigger than he really was.

"Why are you two here? I didn't even know you knew each other?" England finally asked after getting over the shock of seeing Russia in a sombrero.

"Francy-pants told Italy you were here who told us. Well, Italy told Mr Russia, who told me. I bumped into him behind the local Sainsburys," Hamish 'explained'.

England was no wiser. He also did not want to know why Russia (or Hamish for that matter) were behind Sainsburys. England gave him some coins and hoped he would go away.

"We know each other from the War!" Hamish added before he'd even thought about what he was saying.

"Talk about putting your foot in your mouth…" Poland muttered.

"War?" Russia growled. He crunched a pool ball to dust in his hand.

"Oh bugger…" England said. "Can you ring Lithuania?" he asked Poland.

Poland began tapping numbers into his mobile, "I think he's actually, you know, like, in Lithuania," he said quickly.

"A double vodka, please," England said to the barman.

"I didn't know you drank vodka?" Poland asked him.

"I don't. It's for him…" England said, pointing at Russia.

Scotland was trying to calm the big Russian. "Come on, we'll play pool. There's no need to get yersel' inter a wee carry-on."

"Wut?" Russia didn't understand a word.

"Two double vodkas," Poland said wisely.

"I don't have enough money," England said.

Poland jumped off the barstool, "I'm ringing the Russian Embassy," Poland said. (He had the Russian Embassy on speed-dial. A wise move.)

Scotland was trying to 'cue-off' the game of pool. This, England surmised, would not go well. Partly because Russia had snapped off a leg off the pool table.

"Can't we do something?" England said, looking more and more worried.

"Hey! It's not my country he's about to partition!" Poland said and seemed to be settling in to watch.

England slowly slithered off the bar stool and tried to head towards the door without being seen.

It didn't work.

"Brother!" Scotland yelled. "Come and join us for a game of pool."

"Well I have to be back for… erm… Coronation Street."

Russia had taken hold of him. "I think you are lying," he rumbled, whilst swigging from a vodka bottle.

"No, he's not. He really does have to be back for Coronation Street," Hamish hiccuped. He was very drunk. And for Hamish to be very drunk must have meant that the two Nations must have been drinking for many hours.

England sagged with relief.

"But that's okay! Because I'm recording it!" Hamish said triumphantly.

"I thought I'd angered you earlier and you weren't going to talk to me!" England said, equally triumphantly.

"You did! I'm not your maid, Arthur!" Hamish said, far too loudly. He potted a red ball - rather easily too. Which was probably due to the fact that the table was at 45 degree angle.

"He was never my maid," England told the pub's gathering crowd.

"You are very strange, England," Russia said. Russia rarely called any of his fellow Nations by their human names or usually he just plain forgot and so to the watching humans it sounded like 'you are very strange England' and thus a slur on the country of England.

"Arthur…" England hissed trying to hint to Russia that he should use his human name.

"No! I'm Ivan! Ivan…" Russia said slowly. "But you can call me Sir."

"He wouldnae name any of the kittens Donald or Malcolm," Hamish told Russia by way of explanation.

Russia looked horrified. "Why not? They are good names for kittens!" Russia looked at England as if he were the epitome of evil.

England hurried over to Poland, who was stood near the men's toilets trying to get a mobile signal. Two men in football shirts glared at him as they came out of the conveniences. Poland was untroubled. This was a Nation who had been partitioned and even officially ceased to exist for a while. A few men in football shirts casting bigoted looks at him had no effect whatsoever. "Okay honey? Yes the Three-Legged Duck. I know I know, awful name. But that's English pubs for you. Yes, he's wearing a sombrero. I know!" Poland almost squealed in his excitement. "It's quite funny. But I think there might be some damage done to stray humans."

"Is that Lithuania? Ukraine?" England tapped him on the shoulder.

Poland looked at him, "No, the Russian Embassy." He then hung up after saying, "Bye then, we'll do lunch!" he added to England, "Bunch of idiots…"

An hour later… England noted that the Russian Embassy staff were taking their time getting there.

Russia and Scotland had been challenged to a game of pool by two big Cockney men. As big as the men thought they were they weren't as big as Russia and certainly not with his sombrero on. They evidently thought, particularly by playing for money - fifty pounds in fact - that Russia and Scotland, both being very drunk, that they would be able to win easily.

England didn't want to watch. But it was like a slow train crash. It might have been okay if Russia had any idea how to play pool. Or even what the cues were. He knew he had to get the balls into the pockets. But he used his fist to do this. He also had no prejudice as to what colour ball he 'potted'. He seemed to think this was a good thing.

Scotland, who did understand the rules of the game, was too drunk and too busy berating England about the 'gross insult done to the great Nation of Scotland and it was duly noted'.

England watched the ensuing match. Poland sat next to him, twirling his cocktail umbrella and occasionally texting someone.

"You're not supposed to sink the cue ball," one of the men said.

Russia looked at him. "Wut?"

"The white ball is a cue ball."

"What's a cue?"

"This is a cue," the man held up a cue.

"I thought that was a bat?" Russia asked wide-eyed.

"No…"

Russia picked up the white cue ball and crushed it in one hand to dust and sprinkled it on the pool table. That was another less ball…

"But never mind…" the man said quickly.

"Oh God…" England said.

It was only after Scotland had climbed onto the pool table to go to sleep, hugging a whisky bottle and Russia had got his hand stuck down one of the pool table pockets trying to extricate a ball and then tearing the table apart trying to free himself, that the police were called in. Close behind them were the Russian Embassy staff.

England decided then, the pub being full of Russians and Poland filming the whole thing on his phone, that it was time to go…

* * *

When he got home, he found France stood in the kitchen, wearing a pinny and nothing else. The Frenchman had curlers in his hair and was in a bad mood.

"Oh yes, you leave me with the kids. You don't care about me. I've toiled and cleaned for you and you come home smelling of beer."

"Well I'm sorry but I've had an awful day."

"So have I! But do I moan about it?"

"Well actually yes you do."

"Yes, I do, but I don't come home drunk."

"No, you're already bloody drunk!"

France nodded, "Living with you is enough to make any woman drink!" he said.

England tried to think what on earth that meant. "Well why don't you just leave then?" he said finally.

France looked shocked, "What about the children? What about the boy? Are you going to check on him and read him a bedtime story?"

England, who thought he had honestly accidentally walked into an episode of Eastenders, wondered what on earth was going on. "Okay…"

"I zink you should, mon cher."

England, who was very drunk should really have gotten himself a cup of tea before he went upstairs. He hesitated outside America's room. He had to hesitate because a very large secret service agent was blocking the door.

"What do you want, Kirkland?"

"I'm just going to go in and check on Alfred," England said. He felt very drunk but thought that he'd covered it quite well.

The agent looked at him suspiciously, "Why?"

England hesitated. He thought about lying, but was too tipsy to think of a lie, so instead told the truth, "Because Francis told me to."

The agent looked him up and down and then nodded, opening the door for him.

Evidently, Francis' word was law now in this house.

England's head spun.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the lump under the duvet. He stroked the bit of hair that he could see, feeling quite sentimental. He remembered well the time America had been just a little boy and he and France had brought him (and his brother) up between them. "Once upon a time there was a little boy called Alfred…" he began to tell Alfred their favourite bedtime story (it usually ended in Alfred being a knight that saved the villagers from a huge dragon and marrying the beautiful princess).

But the mood was ruined by the lump sitting up and screaming, "Aaargh! Mr England what are you doing?"

It was Italy.

England fell off the bed and promptly then fell over America whose feet were sticking out from under the bed.

"Why are you under the bloody bed? There's no point in buying a race-car bed if you're going to sleep under the bloody bed!"

"I'm being a secret agent on a mission!"

Meanwhile Italy was running round and round the bedroom screaming, "Stranger danger stranger danger!"

The secret agent from outside the door slammed in, threw England face down to the ground and pinned his arms behind his back.

"Aaaargh!" England yelled.

Downstairs he could hear the doorbell ringing.

"Let me up! It's me, it's me! I'm not bloody hurting anyone!" England shouted.

Downstairs France answered the door. "Bonjour?"

It was Mrs NoseyParker from next door.

England could hear the conversation from up there. Unfortunately. He got free from the agent after a nod from America and ran downstairs. It was too late.

France, naked, apart from a pink pinny tied around his waist and holding a feather duster was being told off by England's next door neighbour of 10 years.

"It's disgraceful!" the woman said.

"It is!" France said.

"I mean I've gotten used to the screaming over the years…"

"I bet you have."

"But there's screams and screams and these screams were different."

"Oui."

"And then there's the strange baking."

"I feel sorry for you, my good woman."

England shoved him out of the way, "Mrs… er… Mrs Parker…" he said, trying to think what her real name was.

"The Neighbourhood Watch Association is going to be hearing from me, Mr Kirkland. It's really not on."

"What?"

"I've lived next door to you for ten years and I've never seen such disgusting behaviour."

"Zen you are very unfortunate!" France interrupted.

"I believe he's naked," the woman whispered conspiratorially to England.

England nodded, "I think you are right," he whispered back and shut the door in her face.

He turned to France who was grinning broadly, whipped the feather duster off him and hit him several times over the head with it. He didn't notice the woman watching in horror through the window.

There was another knock on the door. England ignored it and continued hitting France with the pink feather duster, chasing the Frenchman round and round the table.

Unanswered, the door was slammed open and Germany stood there, glowering. This glower changed to a look of utter disgust.

England and France froze and then Italy flung himself into the room and into Germany's arms. "Germany! I texted you and you came!"

France sniggered.

"I told him you had tried to get into bed with me, Mr England, but now I realise that it's really Big Brother France you wanted and…"

England threw the duster down and hurried upstairs, covering his ears.

Downstairs in the basement there was a huge crash which made England stop in his tracks.

"Oh oui!" France called. "King Charles is down zere. I believe he is doing a strange magic ritual avec Tinkerbell…"

England closed his eyes and counted to ten… The basement door opened with a loud groan and he found that King Charles had indeed been doing a 'strange magic ritual'. The basement seemed to be full of royalty. He counted four Georges, an Elizabeth, two Henrys, two Scottish Kings (which was always bad news) and three Prince of Wales. He closed the door again quietly before they'd seen him. He wondered about moving house without telling anyone.

 **To be continued…**


	31. The Four Georges

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory,imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Sorry this is a very long chapter and some indulgence on my part - history lessons etc.**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 31 - The Four Georges**

"Your carriage is a wonder, Arthur! The horses are invisible!"

"Mind that other carriage! Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"I say that man there has wires coming out of his ears!"

"Can you make this go any faster, Arthur?"

England had had backseat drivers before but the backseat drivers he now had were the most unqualified. As well as being over 500 years old, never having driven a car themselves and also the simple fact of being… dead.

He sighed. Not much farther now. He could just see the Palace and then he would be free of them.

* * *

Earlier…

England woke to the sound of somebody vacuuming. As England was the only person who did any vacuuming he was immediately suspicious. Somebody had clearly made a mess somewhere. He got out of bed, pulled on his paisley print dressing gown, tied the cord, pulled on his slippers and slouched downstairs.

France was indeed vacuuming, his foot still in its cast did not seem to impede him at all. America was rummaging through cupboards leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.

"Why are you vacuuming?" England asked.

"Qui?"

"Key?"

"What?"

"Why. Are. You… Vous… er pourquoi es-tu… vacuuming?" England yelled again through gritted teeth.

At least France was wearing pants now, that was an improvement on his sole attire - a pinny from the night before.

"I cannot hear you!" France yelled back. "Je ne t'entends pas!" He yelled this as if yelling in French would make any discernible difference.

England pulled the plug out of the socket cutting the vacuum off. France looked at it quizzically and then at England.

"You twit," England said.

"Why did you do zat?" France asked.

They stood in the lounge. America was trying to crane his head around them to watch the television. "Dudes! I'm trying to watch CBeebies! It's crazy, man!"

"What's going on?" England asked.

"Well the Tellytubbies are trying to find someone's hat," America replied.

"Not you! And stop eating in my lounge, use a table!" England said.

America slouched past him with a tray full of breakfast foodstuffs, moaning about the lack of television in his room, the lack of bagels and how 'stuffy' England was.

England decided that if the American didn't leave soon he would be eaten out of house and home.

"You have company," France said, his hands on his hips.

"Where?" England was relieved that France was not wearing his distressingly tight jeans. But this relief was tempered when France turned round and England saw the hole in the seat of the pants. Whether this was deliberate or not is unknown.

France did not answer him as there was a knock on the door, he skidded into the kitchen to answer it.

England was too slow. "Who the bloody hell?" England asked. But he was shoved out of the way as America went past - followed by a veritable carpet of cats.

"Forgot my milk," the American explained as he shoved past again, carrying a full six pint carton of milk and preceded by the six cats. Nobody, cat or otherwise, gave England a second glance.

"You either get back to Washington or get a job!" England called up to the American's bedroom. "Can you hear me? I can't afford you to live here rent free. At least Francis bloody well cleans up!"

He went into the kitchen and immediately wished he hadn't.

Four grim-faced non-smiling men and women sat around his kitchen table. All were being offered tea by Francis.

"Who are these jokers?" England asked Francis, glaring at them. He was feeling rather belligerent and definitely not very accommodating. "Secret Service? MI5? Scotland Yard?" he asked, thinking about the recent events he and France had been involved in at the Palace. He was hoping that they could take those Kings off his hands who were currently down in his basement.

"No mon cher," France whispered. His face was pale and he looked, for a change, sober. "Eet eez ze Neighbourhood Watch Association. You may want to tie up your dressing gown."

England looked down and quickly did tie up his dressing gown and looked back at the four people. "This is bad," he whispered back at France.

"I know, mon cher. Paisley pyjamas are very last year."

"Why are they here?" he whispered.

"We are here because of the complaints we've received about you," one of the grim, non-smiling men said.

England shook his head, "Complaints?"

France stepped back and affected a look of utter shock, a hand to his brow as if he were going to faint. England hit him.

"You mean that woman who came here last night going on about screaming? I mean honestly… She really looked as if she could do with a bit of fun in her life. What a boring old fart. I mean I've lived next door to her for 20 years and not once has she thanked me for putting her bins out and watering her plants when she was away. I don't complain about her herbaceous border encroaching on my prize petunias."

"You're talking about me, Mr Kirkland," one of the women said huffily.

"Oh right…" Arthur said lamely. "I didn't recognise you with all these other people."

"Perhaps you should get dressed mon ami?"

"Yes perhaps I should." England said.

He was halted though by the sound of a German accent. "This house is a disgrace. Do you know your doorbell doesn't work?"

"If that's Germany don't let him in. If it's Austria don't let him in either. If it's Switzerland tell him I have the police on speed-dial so he better not have a rifle with him," England told France.

France, who appeared to have taken on the role of England's doorman or concierge, nodded almost wisely.

England hurried upstairs to get some clothes on. Downstairs France was telling the Neighbourhood Watch about England's house and how Arthur lived like a 'barbarian'.

"He is like a caveman!" France was telling them.

England couldn't hear who the Nation was outside. He assumed it was Germany as whoever it was, was evidently trying to fix his doorbell and complaining about what a terrible country this was.

England wondered if he could stay upstairs.

"Is that the State Department?" America asked, barging into England's room just as he was pulling up his trousers.

"Do you mind? I'm trying to get dressed."

"I'm not going home. If that's the American Consulate dude then you can tell them…"

"You are going to go home. I'm not having you living here for the next four years, Alfred."

"Aww man!" America stomped back out.

England sighed and continued getting dressed. He could hear France telling the Neighbourhood Watch and (possibly) Germany about the continuing lack of facilities.

"He does not have a coffee percolator! Eet eez terrible! Eet eez like ze Middle Ages!"

"You poor man!" someone said.

"We're going to report him to the local authority for his blocking of the road. Do you know he has three vehicles now? One of them seems to have two vagrants living in it."

"Two vagrants? Is one of zem tall with great hair? And ze other has ze look of a madman on speed, madam?"

"Well actually…yes…"

Francis smiled enigmatically. "Ah leetle Pru and Den…"

The doorbell rang - but this time it played a rather strident 'Jingle Bells'.

"I fixed your doorbell," Germany said as he strode in.

"You are so strong and manly!" France told him.

"Who are these fine people?" Germany said, shaking France off him.

"Ze Neighbourhood Watch Association. Zay are like ze… er…" he wanted to say 'Gestapo' but decided it was wise if he didn't use that term. "…Enforcement for ze neighbourhood. Zay say zat Arthur is not a good neighbour."

"Ja, that doesn't surprise me."

"You should see the state of his allotment," one of the men said, looking at his chipped Union Jack mug with distaste. (France had given them England's worst mugs for their tea.)

* * *

Upstairs England, listening to all of this, had a brainwave. He could actually get rid of all his problems at once. The Kings in the basement, the Neighbourhood Watch people, Germany even. He just needed to be very very cunning. He laughed in what he thought was a cunning way.

"Are you alright, Arthur mon cher?" France called up. "I thought I heard you crying?"

England gritted his teeth. They would all rue the day.

He stomped downstairs and instead of pausing to go into the kitchen, carried on down some stairs. Not down to the pits of hell itself of course.

He flung open the basement door to find various dead Kings, a Queen, two Princes of Wales and two Scottish Kings dancing, playing darts (badly), arguing and in the case of King Malcolm and a Prince of Wales - fighting. England knew the sight of some of them would make France run a mile. Even Germany, although he was a relatively young Nation, might turn a whiter shade of pale.

"Excuse me! Your Majesties!" he called and clapped his hands.

Some of them looked up. Some didn't. Bloody idiots the lot of them, England thought. Although he'd always had a soft spot for Queen Elizabeth. She, for her worth, looked up and smiled at him. He blushed a deep red.

"Arthur! You look the same as you did all those years ago!" she called and, picking up her skirts, stepped over her grandfather King Henry VII, who was sat on the floor trying to beat the other King Henry (not VIII) at some card game. Henry VII had always been a misery-guts, England remembered.

She kissed him on the cheek. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"Erm, these are the latest fashions, Your Majesty," he mumbled.

"What year is this?" said one of the Georges.

"2017."

They all looked amazed. "Has the Great British Empire taken over the world, Arthur?"

"Erm no…"

"I presume we still hold the colonies… the New World, India…?" George the Second asked.

"Well no…" England said lamely. He was going to add that it was George the Third who'd helped lose the bloody 'New World'. He preferred not to think about that carry-on.

They all looked disappointed.

"But Scotland is now joined with us!" England said and then wished he hadn't.

King Malcolm howled with rage and began attacking one of the Princes of Wales.

"And we erm… we have Gibraltar!" he said as if this was a consolation prize.

Elizabeth took his arm, "Never mind Arthur. Let's leave these madmen and tell me all about the modern world. Tell me who is on the throne now?"

"Elizabeth the second, Ma'am."

She beamed at this, "Did you hear that, you fools? Another Elizabeth! Right, Arthur, take me to see London as it is now. I haven't visited you since 1849!"

"We have cars now, Ma'am. But we can't… I actually need your help…"

There was a shout from upstairs. "Arthur! Mon cher!"

England cringed.

All the royalty in the room halted their gambling, fighting and arguing and looked round at him. It was as if time had stopped.

"Erm yes… that would be er…"

But England didn't get to finish his words as all the Kings and Princes, as one, stormed past him and went upstairs.

"Bugger…" England said and followed them. His plan foiled already.

* * *

"What's this? Some kind of fancy dress party?" one of the Neighbourhood Watch men said.

Germany stared open-mouthed at the crowd of royalty now stood in England's kitchen.

France had jumped in Germany's arms.

"You! Francis!" one of the Princes yelled and launched himself at the Frenchman.

"Save me!" France cried. "Angleterre, save me!"

"Everyone calm down!" England said ineffectually. "Your Majesty, please put that kettle down. You'll scald yourself. And please you… erm…" England realised he couldn't keep calling them 'Your Majesty' in front of humans so he instead used the King George III's given name, "George William Frederick, please stop turning that light on and off."

George IV was telling his father to "sort himself out and take his medication, whoever heard of a light going on and off as if by magic?"

Germany wasn't as afraid as England had expected. But then again England had forgotten that most of his Kings and Queens were descended from German royalty themselves. In fact, to England's utter annoyance, Germany had sat down at the table and was telling two of the Georges about how terrible England had become as a Nation and a person in general.

France meanwhile had been backed into a corner by one of the Prince of Wales.

"Ah Edward… nice to see you again," France said lamely.

The Prince glared at France, "Do you remember Crécy and Poitiers?"

France clearly did. "Oh no, eet eez ze Black Prince!" he gibbered and fainted clean away.

England rubbed his hands. One part of his plan was actually working. The other part wasn't.

And then one of the other Georges began flirting with his neighbour.

"Perhaps we should all go out? We'll all have a nice cup of tea and then we'll go to Buckingham Palace?" England said quickly.

"That old hole? What a dump!" said one of the Georges.

"I've been there! We visited Vicky when I last came to see you, Arthur. I would love to see the new young Queen," said Queen Elizabeth.

"She's 90 now, Ma'am."

"Really? Are her dresses as nice as mine?"

"She usually wears wellies and a headscarf."

"How vulgar!" yelled one of the other Georges, who had found France's wine and was drinking it.

The Neighbourhood Watch humans were making their excuses and leaving. "Well, you'll be getting a letter from us, Mr Kirkland," one of them said and tried to leave but his exit was blocked by strange people in fancy dress.

"Are you in the Armed Forces? If not, you should be," Prince Edward of Wales was telling him, looking him up and down. "We could do with more archers."

"Erm I'm good with a spade…"

"Yer all a bunch of morons!" King Malcolm shouted suddenly.

England shook his head and began pouring hot water into mugs. "Coffee, tea, herbal? Perhaps some camomile for you Malcolm?"

"I'm Scottish! I don't drink yer daft herbal shite!" King Malcolm shouted. He was joined in this by his compatriot, whose name escaped England but was clearly another mad Scottish King who had probably been invaded or had invaded England's northern borders.

"Are you really a King?" breathed Mrs Neighbour-person to the King George sat with her.

He nodded.

"Oh bugger." England said.

"Coffee! Oh my word! It's amazing…" Queen Elizabeth said. She seemed amazed by everything.

France was now trying to extricate his wine from George II and trying to ignore Prince Edward of Wales who was glaring at him. Germany was telling George I of Hanover all about modern Germany and how much better it was than England.

And then Philippe or Gaston or Pierre or whichever CIA man it was, came in and told England the worst news possible...

* * *

Upstairs...

"He can't be ill. He's never ill," England said looking down at America's prone figure.

"I think it's the flu…" America coughed and put a hand to his brow.

"He does feel hot," England said, feeling his brow. "Mmmm…"

"This is your fault, Kirkland. This accommodation is substandard," Pierre/Gaston/Philippe told him.

England looked around at the wreck of a bedroom - a detritus of a mis-spent adulthood. Plates piled upon plates piled upon discarded cardboard pizza boxes, cat hairs, a half-built lego fort with lego figures clutching various weapons with an action man towering over them.

"I can't go home now…" America croaked, looking at England under lidded eyes. He put a tissue to his nose and blew loudly.

"I have to call the President," Pierre/Gaston/Philippe said and imbued this with menace.

"Yeah you do that…" England muttered. "I don't bloody believe you, you bloody bugger. You can't fool me. I remember when you used to play up so you didn't have to go to geography lessons and look where that you got you!"

"There is a Swedenland!" America protested, sitting up suddenly and then flinging himself back down. "I'm ill…"

England threw himself back downstairs. "Tell your President that his Nation will be back home soon!" England told the CIA man, now making an international call from England's phone.

"And now he's throwing a poor young man out on the street, a man who is ill… He only keeps me because I clean his house!" France was telling the humans who were backing away towards the door with looks of desperation.

England's plan was clearly not working. Nobody was bloody moving. "Look I have free admission tickets for afternoon tea with the Queen at Buckingham Palace!" he said, waving some 'tickets' at them.

"I'm the Queen!" Queen Elizabeth muttered.

"Not you," England hissed.

* * *

Cramming dead royalty into a vehicle had not been easy. Despite their being incorporeal, none of them wanted to sit with each other. (No doubt America would not have understood this term and would have called them 'floaty' but he'd missed all the 'fun', being now ensconced in his bed with six cats and the latest Nintendo game.)

In the end, it had taken France's help and Germany's determination to get them in America's huge 'Hummer'. The bloody thing still smelled funny - of rainwater and MacDonalds but at least it held them all.

"I thought you would have been too busy to come with us, Arthur," Queen Elizabeth said to Arthur and then shouted, "Oh my word! Mind that other horseless carriage!"

And so England had had to endure relentless backseat drivers. Germany had just tutted behind him and noted down his obvious bad driving. France, sat in the passenger seat was being strangely supportive but that was only because he had been threatened with decapitation by one of the Henrys.

England sighed. It would have been far simpler to cram them into a taxi cab but then more explanations about 'fancy dress' would have been necessary and he doubted that these mad nutjobs would be able to keep up the pretence. They would have insisted on being called 'Majesty' no doubt. Already he had misplaced two Kings. One of the Scottish ones had stormed off to say he was "visiting Scotland and the home of the Highlands".

"Where's George the Fourth?" England asked suddenly.

"He's eloping with Rosemarie," France said, his eyes shining.

"Who in God's name is Rosemarie?"

"The woman from next door."

"Really?"

"Really."

England had no idea what he thought about one of his long-dead Kings eloping with a 60 year old woman who lived next door. The day was surreal enough.

"She says she is going to retire and buy a bungalow in Yorkshire."

"And why not?" England said.

"What are you going to do? You don't have tickets to ze Buckingham Palace do you, mon cher?" France whispered to him.

"Get your bloody hand off my knee…! Of course I do!" England fingered the 2 for 1 vouchers for Buckingham Palace tearoom in his pocket. Hopefully, by the time the assorted royalty had got out they might have all either dematerialised or been caught. That brought back reminiscences of Henry II on a cross-channel ferry and the Special Branch being brought in. England smiled at the memory.

"So you have to slow this chariot when the light goes red?" asked one of the Georges.

"Yes for the last time - yes!" England yelled.

"I wonder how hard it can be to procure and thus propel one of these machines?" another George asked.

"Not too difficult I would think. After all, Arthur manages it."

"Indeed."

"I hate going anywhere with this lot, it's so bloody annoying," England growled.

"You should respect your betters, England," Germany told him sternly.

"Do your ex-bosses ever turn up and bother you?" England asked him pointedly.

"Nein."

"Nine! Oh my God!" England looked appalled. And then said in a weird cheery voice, "Here we are! You can all get out! Have a nice time! Bye then!"

"Are you not coming as well, Arthur?" Elizabeth asked.

"No no no… no no…I'm erm… I have paperwork," England said. He saw Germany staring at him with suspicious eyes.

"I'm always busy," Germany said, getting out of the car much to England's relief. "But I think I would like to spend a little more time with George of Hanover. You know he was ridiculed by you English for being so German!"

"Well who'd have thought…" England said, distracted. He gave the 2 for 1 tickets to George III and hoped the idiot King wouldn't eat them. "Well we really must be going, mustn't we, Francis?" and before anyone could actually say anything, England had put his foot down and they were off, the wheels spinning.

"We must?" France said looking in the rear view mirror at the crowd of Royalty on the pavement.

"Yes you bloody daft frog!" England said.

"Ah oui!" France suddenly seemed to catch up and nodded enthusiastically. "You are so masterful!"

"I really believe I am, aren't I?" England said, instantly cheering up. He switched on the radio.

Behind him the Kings with their enormous wigs, Queen Elizabeth with her huge dress and the incongruous figure of Germany in his sober suit headed towards the Palace.

"And now for the next part of my cunning plan…" England said to himself.

He tapped in the address of the French Embassy on the Satnav.

"Non! You cannot do zis! I implore you! I have cleaned for you! I have given you my pants!" France said, his hands clasped together.

"Only because you gave my pants away!"

"I have another date for you!" France sounded desperate.

"No! Absolutely not! They've all been bloody Nations, bloody blokes as well! You put me on bloody Tinder!"

"I had to!" France said and then corrected himself. "It was the boy who did it! We could be happy! Me, you and the boy!"

England was about to say something but then the radio interrupted with several newsflashes. An incident at the Palace tearooms where a fancy dress party had dissolved into a cake fight and the police had had to be called and then an incident at the coach station where a Scottish man had been arrested following an incident over a vending machine.

England shook his head. Not his problem. He switched off the radio.

He drove with determination, ignoring the protestations, threats and then finally outright crying from the Frenchman next to him. He would be free of this sordid little person, he decided. The French could bloody well have their Nation back and then the Americans could bloody well have their Nation back as well. To mix them up would be a disaster of course.

He turned the corner into Cromwell Road. The French Embassy was there in sight. He could actually see the French flags blowing in the breeze, mocking him and then the traffic came to a standstill.

He honked his horn and stuck his head out of the window to come face to face with a man on stilts (who'd had to bend down of course), wearing a very large Stars 'n' Stripes hat. There were also horses, cowboys and… Alfred?!

"What the bloody hell?!"

"Protest march," the man on stilts told him and then marched off.

But England was shouting, "Alfred! Alfred!"

But 'Alfred' wasn't listening, he was walking away from them dressed in rainbow-striped cowboy garb and leading a horse. He did not look 'ill'.

"Ah oui… I know what zis is, mon cher." France said smiling.

"What?" England said through gritted teeth, glaring at the 'ill' American.

"A protest march for the rights of Gay Rodeo Riders!" France told him, his eyes shining. "It was in ze local paper. You should read it some time."

 **To Be Continued...**


	32. The King has Lost His Crown

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory,imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001Thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Browsofglory, Rowerlovesastronomy, Fryingpangirl, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 32 - The King has lost his crown**

"Why do they need a protest march for the rights of gay rodeo riders?" England turned to ask France but predictably, France was already out of the vehicle and dancing with a man in rather tight leather trousers.

England sighed and abandoned the Hummer at the side of the road. There was nowhere it was going anyway as there were vehicles in front and behind him, nobody was going anywhere.

He shouted, "Alfred! You're supposed to be ill at home!"

Maddeningly, Alfred ignored him.

A small polar bear dressed in rainbow colours came up to him and called him a 'fathead'.

England thought it might have been Mr Kumajiro or whatever the hell it was called and wondered why small bears had issues with him.

"Alfred? Damn and blast it all!" Someone bumped into him. "Excuse me, madam, or I mean er sorry, my good Sir. Nice er trousers…"

"Mon cher, what is wrong?" France called out and jived up to him. "You look very bothered about somezing."

"You can cut that out!" England said as France kissed him on the cheek. "Alfred is over there and he said he was bloody ill and now he's ignoring me!"

France, despite still having a pot on his foot was managing to dance with a (presumably) gay cowboy. "Ah I do not zink…" he began to say.

"Alfred!" England finally spun the 'American' around.

"I'm not Alfred!"

"Oh really?" England said suspiciously.

"Yes! Don't you recognise me? I'm not carrying a gun, I'm not shouting and I'm polite."

"Stop pretending to be Canada! You're supposed to be ill. What a bloody fibber."

"I don't know what my idiot twin brother has said but… oh bonjour Uncle Francis!"

"Ah…" England said utterly deflated.

"And before you have a go at me…" Canada began to say but they were interrupted by Poland jigging up to them.

Poland placed a rainbow scarf around England's neck, "Oh honey! I'm so glad you've come out!"

"Yes well I'm glad I'm out as well," England said thinking of the mess in his house, the problems of getting rid of all those kings and the general problem of how to extricate America from his bedroom.

"I think you're very brave," Poland said, smiling at him.

"Well it's not been easy I can tell you!" England told him, thinking of dumping the kings at Buckingham Palace. The fact that he and Poland could possibly be at cross purposes never entered his head.

"No but it's not really, like, a surprise," Poland continued. "We all expected it!" He was wearing a rainbow cowboy hat and carrying a whip. England could not see if he had a horse.

"It's been a bloody nightmare. But Francis has actually been a bit of a help, kind of…"

"Well we all expected that, honey. We were all just surprised it's took so long!"

"Well, I think I did rather well. I mean I only just decided what to do this morning."

"Really honey? Some people take years!"

"Did you have problem with your kings as well?"

"Kings?"

"Yes getting your kings out of the house?" England was genuinely interested.

"My kings?"

"Yes, getting your bosses out of the house? Don't they visit you? I've had to deposit three Georges, an Elizabeth, and two Princes of Wales at Buckingham Palace. I lost a George."

"You lost a George?" Poland looked utterly confused. "What on earth is a George? I honestly think you've lost your mind, England. I did wonder when we went out last night. I think Katya might be right."

"Why what did she say? Does she have problems with her kings?"

"I have to go now, I have my hair to wash…" Poland said and began to hurry away.

England sighed. He quite liked the rainbow scarf though. But didn't like the parade in which he was slowly being carried away. "Erm excuse me… I'm not really… excuse me…" he said as he tried to battle his way back to Canada (if it was him, England wondered if it was America pretending to be Canada as he'd been caught out and about with 'flu').

"Matthew!" he managed to shout.

This time 'America' did turn round, "Over here Uncle Arthur!" Matthew called back and waved.

Ah so it was Canada. England battled through various camp cowboys and a very fabulously dressed rodeo clown and got to Canada's side. "Oh my God!" he managed to pant.

"I know! It's great isn't it? The parade's going so well. Apart from that great black thing stuck there blocking everyone… I mean what kind of bozo parks a car like that…? It's not my brother is it?"

"Er no… well… it is your brother's.. But I drove it… parked it…"

"That black thing? The one with the Carnival king sat on the bonnet?" Canada said.

"What?"

"And that poor forlorn-looking young man huddled in the back being terrorised by Uncle Francis?"

Canada was right. The 'Carnival King', the man dressed as Uncle Sam on stilts was indeed sat on the bonnet of the Hummer and he was drunk - quite possibly passed out.

Also France was indeed terrorising a young man who was in the back seat. England realised with horror that it wasn't just any young man. It was Henry VI. Not one of England's most illustrious kings. Someone who, when alive, had been astoundingly ineffectual and prone to melancholy. This seemed to be exacerbated now he was dead. Especially with France's face pressed against the back window of the Hummer and miming kissing the poor man. No wonder King Henry VI was huddled in a corner of the back seat, his hands clasped around his knees, rocking side to side.

"Oh bugger…"

* * *

Later…

"So I go to get rid of some Kings, a Queen and two Princes of Wales and one Nation, and come back with another King, another Nation and the Nation I tried to get rid of…" England was talking to himself. In his bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror. Was it his imagination or was he looking much older than his 1000+ years?

They had had to abandon the Hummer or whatever it was called and hitch a lift with some gay cowboys which France had thought was delightful. This was only slightly less uncomfortable than hitching a ride with an invisible dragon.

Downstairs, America and Canada were playing Guitar Hero, whatever that was. England had been appalled to get back home to find Alfred dancing around the sitting room with cats in his arms (they all seemed to have taken a liking to him and followed him everywhere). When England had turned the music down and asked him what the bloody hell he thought he was doing and why wasn't he lying upstairs 'ill', the American had said he had felt 'a little better' and that 'playing Dance Revolution' had 'helped'. One of the CIA agents had apparently gone out and bought a 'dance mat' whatever that was.

He realised far too late that his life was not his own.

"Mon ami!" France called up to him.

"For God's sake!" England called back. "Can a man not sit in the loo for a few minutes?"

"Zere are some parcels zat have arrived pour vous!"

England sighed, washed his hands, combed his hair and stomped downstairs. He side-stepped the two Nations dancing in his front room and went to the kitchen (the CIA men had wisely declined to be in their 'competition')

"What?" he said.

France nodded at the table. There were indeed some parcels - all with the markings of an online shopping channel emblazoned on them. "Well I didn't order anything," England said.

"Neither did I. Although we really could do with a decent coffee maker and coffee grinder," France told him. He was wearing pink marigold gloves and holding a long handled sponge. The latter object he waved at England.

"I'll grind you in a bit!" England yelled and wished he'd not used that particular phrase. "And get that thing out of my face!"

"Oh lala! It's not in your face, it is in my hand," France said.

"Then get that bloody thing that's in your hand out of my bloody face."

"You shout too much!"

England was about to start opening the parcels when Italy came blundering in.

"Senore Inghilterra, I ordered them!" The Italian still had his eyes closed and he looked dishevelled.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here? I thought you left last night with Germany?"

"I nearly did but then Senore America said that he was going to have a Let's Dance competition and also Ludwig said he was going to go and help the Neighbourhood Watch people with their complaints against you and I didn't want to complain about you and they all looked a bit scary. They held a big meeting about you in their meeting hall last night and they were all dressed up in cloaks and I got scared so I came back here and I wanted to be in the dance competition because I can dance even though Romano said I can't and also Signore Russia texted me a really creepy text telling me to get ready to take over the world!"

England stared at him, "Russia wants to take over the world with you?"

France staggered backwards dramatically, "I told you! Nobody would believe me. Every-time I have seen Ivan he has said something about destroying all of us! Eet eez terrible! We must do something!" he began to run up and down the kitchen, waving the dishwashing implement around in England's face as he did so. England was sorely tempted to get hold of the thing and shove it down France's windpipe.

This panic caused Italy to panic as well and he ran up and down yelling, "Aargh! The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming!"

A small voice said in a corner of the room, "Who is Russia?"

England looked across to see Henry VI sat in the corner, still wearing his ermine cloak, a childish paper crown on his head, looking thoroughly miserable.

"Oh er… he's er… you won't know him. I don't think we had any dealings with Russia back in er 1430 or thereabouts. I didn't meet Russia for another 100 years. Oh dear God…" He looked around after his little monologue and found France, Italy and Henry VI hiding under the table. France was telling the King how terrifying Russia was.

At least they seemed to have gotten over their initial enmity, England thought.

"Anyway, shouldn't we er… open these packages?" he asked no-one.

'Marcel', the Secret Service detail for the day walked in and stared at the packages. "Are those from Mr Russia?" he asked.

"Well yes but I'm sure…" England trailed off as the Secret Service man was immediately on the walkie-talkie.

"We have a code 499, I repeat a code 499. Yes I don't know how. Big Bad Wolf was here and ordered some things with Bo Peep."

"Who in God's name is Big Bad Wolf and Bo Peep?" England asked.

'Marcel' looked at him, "Mr Russia and Italy, Mr Kirkland."

"Oh right. What on earth do you think is in those parcels?" he asked.

But Marcel wasn't listening to him he was nodding to whoever was talking to him on the walkie-talkie. He then switched it off and turned round, "Lieutenant-Colonel Jones, Sir? We need to get out now."

Alfred, all flushed from playing whatever it was, came dashing in, "I ain't leaving! I'm not going to DC, man!"

"We need to evacuate the building, Sir," 'Marcel' turned to his colleague, 'Pascal'. "Evacuation of Prince Charming and Snow White now."

The other CIA man nodded and grabbed America and Canada and pretty much threw them out of the house.

Italy ran after them, "It wasn't my fault!" he shouted. Henry VI, having somehow got along quite well with Italy after huddling together under the table, hurried after them. France sauntered past and pinched 'Marcel' on the bum as he went.

"What in the name of Emmerdale do you think can possibly be in those parcels?" he asked.

Around him the house was being sealed up by plastic sheeting, some people arrived in full Hazmat suits with Geiger counters. "I'll put the kettle on shall I?" he said, hiding the ginger nuts under the sink.

"We believe there could be a small thermonuclear device hidden in those parcels," Marcel was telling the assembled Nations.

Italy burst into tears, his face pressed against France who tried to console him.

"I really don't think it is," England said, sipping from his I 'heart' Blackpool mug. The radiation clear-up team realised he was still in the house (he was busy hiding the teabags and 'good' biscuits) and shoved him outside to stand with his fellow Nations.

"Man! This is so cool!" America yelled, punching the air.

"It could spark World War 3, Sir," Marcel said gravely.

One of the Hazmat suited scientists took England's mug from him and ran a Geiger counter up and down it.

Next door, George IV was glaring at them over the fence, "You are ruining mine and Rosemarie's honeymoon!" he called.

England glared at the scientist who had taken the mug from him, "That was the finest cup of PG Tips you'll ever find, you imbecile!" He then shouted at George IV, "And you can shut up, you're supposed to be bloody dead!"

"Don't you oppress me!" George IV shouted and then looked at Henry VI, "At least I was a better king than you!" he said.

"That's debatable," England muttered, looking from one to the other.

"Come on Rosemarie, let's go to Margate!" the dead King yelled and stomped off.

* * *

And so, for the second time in a week, the whole area was evacuated by the security services.

"How long do you think we'll be here?" England asked someone as they were shown, along with another 2000 or so people into a local school sports hall designated as the local evacuation shelter.

He was not given an answer. Instead he was given a number and he, France, Italy, America and Canada, along with Henry VI and Mr Kumajiro slouched off to find themselves allocated to numbered camp-beds and given a blanket each.

"This is all your fault, Italy, you little bloody fool," England hissed.

America and Canada were already playing volleyball with some local kids - the ball had bounced off England's head twice already.

"Zis is just terrible!" France wailed, face down on a metal rickety campbed. "I cannot live like zis! No wine! No style!"

"Oh shut up."

"I don't understand it!" Italy wailed, hugging Mr Kumajiro, who was struggling in his grasp. King Henry VI had tried to stroke the curmudgeonly bear but the bear had bit him.

"What did you bloody order with Russia?!" England asked.

"I thought it was just a pasta maker!" Italy wailed.

"So what's the problem? Eh?" England addressed this to Marcel.

"This, Mr Kirkland…" Marcel showed England a series of text messages on Italy's phone - all from Russia.

"The order has gone and soon Russia will have a foothold in Rome!" the text said.

"We think that Mr Russia was going to attack Italy first, seeing them as a vulnerable point in Western Europe." Marcel explained.

"I think that he was just ordering stuff from QVC…" England said skeptically.

Marcel ignored him but showed him another text, "We will make preparations to take over the world!"

"Now that is odd, but it could be…" England began to say.

"I thought he meant Braginski-Vargas Pizza Huts all over the world! I never thought he meant anything else! I don't want to take over the world! I have problems with my pants in a morning, I don't think I would be very good at world domination." Italy wailed.

France nodded wisely and said creepily, "You can tell me all about your pants, leetle Italy…"

"And then there's this…" Marcel said.

"Cast on 22s, k2p2 repeat for 5 cm."

"Oh my God!" England exclaimed.

"Yes we think those are the nuclear codes!" Marcel said.

"Who would give this moron the nuclear codes?" England asked, pointing at Italy. A ball hit him in the head again.

"I've got the nuclear codes for the States!" America yelled for all to hear.

"Dear God help us…" England muttered.

Sat on the next campbed, Mr Kumajiro was texting Mr Panda, "Yo Panda, these guys are such losers, LOL. Mr Russkie sent stupid Italy a knitting pattern and they all think it's the nuclear codes. Anyway, are we still on for Badminton on Thursday if you can get away from China?"

France turned to England and said, "Mon ami, I have to get out of here."

"Oh for God's sake, France. Just because you don't have your fancy wine, you can't just walk out. I suppose we have to stay here until the all clear. Bunch of idiots…"

"No you don't understand. I have my driving test later."

"Driving test? What?"

"Well you have not taken me for any driving lessons lately but I know how to drive so I thought I could pass anyway. I am very clever."

"Oh my God…" England thought hard. He could actually get rid of France. If the idiot passed his test then he could bugger off. That would be it. His side of the contract would be complete.

He jumped up off the camp-bed and yelled, "Hurrah!" He then practically picked France up and headed for the door and… were met by a wall of Secret Service men (Gaston, Marcel, Philippe and Pascal according to France). They were going nowhere…

France collapsed in tears. "Oh non! And poor Gilbert and Denmark are out there all alone and afraid…"

England doubted this very much. "I'm sure they've scarpered."

"Zay were living in your car, mon cher!"

"What?"

 **To be continued…**


	33. Highway to Hell

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory,imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Warnings: France**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 33 - Highway to Hell**

"Alfred we need your help in getting out of here!"

"Why dude?"

"To save the world," England told him simply.

"Hahahaha! No way, man. You guys kill me." Alfred replied looking England and France up and down. He was bouncing a ball up and down, watched intently by several small scruffy boys, Canada and the kittens who were sat in a sports holdall (the kittens were, not Canada).

England attempted to snatch the ball away from him as it was annoying him but missed and the ball bounced away. He sighed. "Okay, well Francis needs to go and do his driving test."

"Well why didn't you say? Me and my homey, Canadia, will help you. We'll create a diversion."

"Good man!"

"Yo Canadia!" America yelled. "We need to create a diversion!"

"What do you mean?" Canada asked, approaching, bouncing the ball.

England felt like bouncing the ball on their heads. The two Nations had been playing 'catch' at each end of the sports hall. America throwing the ball so hard he'd almost knocked Canada off his feet. A bunch of kids were crowded around America and quizzing him on his encyclopedic knowledge of Marvel superheroes.

"A diversion, dude!" America yelled at Canada.

"You're not supposed to tell everyone!" England told him. "The key to a diversion is that nobody knows it's a bloody diversion so we can get out."

"Oh right, and you're not going to save the world? You wouldn't go and be heroes without me, would you?" Alfred asked him skeptically.

"Do we look like heroes?" England asked. Beside him France was wearing a floral shirt (he insisted it was a shirt but to England it looked like a lady's blouse), the pair of pink marigold gloves and a rainbow scarf.

"No," America said. "You don't."

England was unsure if he felt offended by this remark but decided he didn't have time for a blazing stand-up row. It would be ineffectual anyway to row with America, like plaiting fog.

"You go over there," America said to Canada, "And we'll do this diversitraction thingy."

"Distraction." England said.

"Or diversion," America said.

France frowned.

"So what's the code?" England asked.

"What code?"

"Well how do we know when to make a run for it?" England persevered.

"What do you mean?" America asked and then was promptly smacked hard on the head by a ball from Canada who had thrown it as hard as he could - obviously in retaliation.

America went down like a sack of potatoes.

England went through the five stages of grief very quickly and then realised as France tugged him that this was the distraction. "Allons mon ami!" France said.

CIA men stormed past them and rushed to America's side. "Sir! Sir!" they called.

Italy burst into frantic sobs.

Mr Kumajiro began taking photos on his iphone and was no doubt texting them to Mr Panda or some such correspondent.

Thus, no-one noticed when England and France, followed closely but unnoticed by King Henry VI.

* * *

Later… much much later…

England had been pacing up and down the driving test centre like an expectant father. His nails were bitten down. He'd smoked fourteen cigarettes and he'd told Prussia and Denmark to shut the hell up fifteen times. Yes, Prussia and Denmark.

To explain why in the name of King George they were there we have to go back to when England and France had arrived back at England's house. They had done a 'commando run' by jumping over back garden hedges to avoid the Army cordon ringing the front of the house. This had actually meant England crashing through hedges and France falling drunkenly over them. They had then arrived at England's back door, seen the Army bomb disposal team trying to defuse a pasta maker. England had thrown a stone at the window to distract them, run in, picked up some car keys and run out again. He realised then that the Hummer was still abandoned outside the French Embassy and that the Mini was still wheel-clamped. Panicked. Ran back inside the house. Ignored the Army men who were now shouting at them, ran back out with more car keys and then stood looking at the Bentley.

It had floral curtains up at the windows and a sign up that said 'PruDen's taxi service'.

England wrenched open one of the doors.

"I am going to kill you two! A nuclear explosion will be nothing to what I will visit upon you! You will be so beaten by me that your children, no, your grandchildren will feel it! I'll make sure you never work in this city again!" England yelled.

"Cool it dude…" Denmark said, stepping out of the car, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Bloody hell. Is that Arthur? For God's sake, man. Calm down!" Prussia said, poking his head out of the driver's window. "We were having a lie-in."

"You… living… in my… my… beautiful… Do you have any idea what car this is?" England shouted.

"It's big…" Denmark said and began brushing his teeth with a toothbrush dipped in beer.

"It's a 1957 S1 Bentley and it's worth more than your whole country's miserable GDP."

"Hey I don't know what my country's GDP is." Denmark said and then added, "Anyway, what's a GDP?"

"You have to leave zis place, mes amies," France told them.

"Why's that then, Francy?" Prussia asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Cos you and Arthur have to go off and have a picnic in your lame car with some lame-ass thermos flask on a lame-ass tartan rug?"

"No but zat would be good, non?" France looked at England appealingly.

"Just get the bloody hell out of my car!" England yelled.

"You're totally upsetting my morning routine!" Denmark yelled back.

"There's going to be a nuclear explosion!" England told them. Surely that should work?

"You been baking again, England?" Prussia asked.

"No… really…"

"I have my driving test zis afternoon and you all should help me. I need a car!" France told them.

"You're not bloody using my precious…" England paused. He didn't want his precious Bentley sullied, but then again it already was, wasn't it?

* * *

And so they had all ended up at the Driving Test Centre. Denmark had broken the vending machine and was sat sulking on one of the small plastic chairs. He wore a large viking helmet and had tried to seduce the receptionist. The receptionist - a small man named Barry - had looked startled. Prussia had marched up and down the reception area berating the 'crapness' of Britain in general until England had mollified him by giving him a Beano comic and packet of gobstoppers.

"Please let him pass… please dear God let my car be okay… please don't let him be arrested…" England prayed to himself and all but got on the floor on his knees to whatever God might take time out from causing floods, hurricanes and American elections, to actually listen to a poor 1000 year old plus Nation.

France finally did stagger in through the double automatic doors and into England's arms.

"Well?" England said. "Well? Tell me, man! Tell me!"

France looked at him with tears in his big blue eyes. "Eet eez as we feared, mon ami… my driving… zay are scoundrels… zay do not understand…"

"Five dangerous, four serious faults and one minor fault…" England read the scrap of paper slowly. "Is this possible?"

The driving test examiner followed France in then. Or at least England had deduced that was the man. He was white and shaking so violently he could barely walk and had the air of a man who had seen terrible things. "Possible?! Possible?!" the man yelled. "I have been an examiner for 20 years and I have never seen driving like it!"

"I didn't think he was that bad…" England mumbled, trying to shrug France off him.

"His driving instructor must be certifiable!" the examiner continued.

"Yeah… that's about right…" Prussia said, looking at England.

"Tell us what happened, dude," Denmark said to France.

It was the worst five words anyone could have said…

France sat down slowly on an orange plastic chair. He took off his marigold gloves and wiped his eyes. "Ah my friends, mes amies, mes amours…" (Prussia and Denmark looked exceedingly uncomfortable at this.) "I will tell you everything!"

And he did:

* * *

(The following is in France's own words...)

The examiner told me his name was 'Bill'. I did not believe him at all. He looked like a Lancelot. So that is what I called him. I kept my gloves on. I think he was disturbed by this. I have lost my long-handled sponge, Arthur, I have no idea where it is. King Henry was waving it around in the back seat of the Bentley at some rogue of a lorry driver. But I'll get to that.

When I got in the car, ah the leather seats, mon cher, they are so sexy… When I got in the car Lancelot shouted at me straight away and told me to sit in the driver's seat. How was I to know… I know now of course… I can see with the look in your eyes that you agree with Lancelot that I am a little silly.

Anyway, I started the engine and then remembered that I was supposed to check the mirrors and so I did. I looked gorgeous. My hair was waved just so. That shampoo and conditioner I bought from Poland with the jojoba makes it shine like the rays of the sun. You should try it Arthur. Your hair looks like crap most of the time.

And then I put on my seat belt. I leaned across to put on Lancelot's seatbelt. But he slapped my hand away. I refuse to call him 'Bill', such a drab name for such a vivacious person. (England, Prussia and Denmark looked across at 'Bill' who was dressed in a grey polyester suit, had grey hair, and was filling in paperwork with a look of a demented man.)

He told me to 'pull away' but I drove anyway down the road. I was not happy that he was looking at a clipboard and not at me. I told him this. So really it was his fault that we went into the back of the lorry.

(England fainted at this point.)

The lorry driver was very rude and called me something that I do not really understand. Do you know what a 'complete arse-tool' is? There was very little damage. King Henry got out with me to remonstrate and waved the sponge at the man. I think that is possibly where we lost it. I was told to get back in the car by Lancelot. He was so masterful! I insisted on driving on. But he wanted to go back.

He told me to go left at the end of the road and left again and go back to the test centre. This of course I would not do. My French pride would not let me finish this test in such disgrace. I turned right. This was unfortunately a one way street and I was apparently going the wrong way. A kind driver wound his window down and told me I was a 'fucking idiot'. I thanked him in French and drove on.

I attempted to do a three point turn. I thought that this would rectify matters, non? But Arthur's precious Bentley is very large, much like my… Anyway, I reversed it and it might have hit something. I could not see behind me. The curtains, although very floral and very pretty obscured my view. King Henry said he would watch my behind. I let him. My behind is gorgeous. I think he is sexually frustrated and he desires me.

So I reversed, went forward, reversed, went forward all with King Henry watching the car. I do not think he knows what he is doing because I got stuck. I think Arthur should get a much smaller car. Lancelot was shouting at me now. Very unprofessional. Also there were three cars trying to get past. I told them they would have to wait until I composed myself.

Meditation is such a gift. I have always been able to meditate, even at the most stressful moments. Napoleon said it helped him just before the battle of Austerlitz. That and lots of champagne. I sat on the roof of the car with my legs crossed and meditated. I tried to get some motorists to join me. They refused. Quite forcefully I thought. I do not know what 'an idiot donkey' means or 'piss-taking arsy pansy layabout'. I assumed they were all referring to my graceful repose. It did not matter. An uncouth loutish crowd. Especially when they began to rock the car from side to side.

It was King Henry who kindly asked me to come down and attempt to move the car. I did so, not without some hesitation. But King Henry, being dead, ran right through one of the motorists and they ran off. Fancy being afraid of a dead man?

I took a gulp of wine and started the car. Lancelot told me I should not drink and drive. I did not spill any. The wine-glass was plastic. One of those Arthur has for when young Alfred visits. It has a fish on it called 'Nemo' or something. I have no idea. It is Alfred's favourite.

(England, lying prone on the floor, muttered, "The Little Mermaid is his favourite mug".)

So I reversed again and went forward and then a large man shouted at me to 'get the bloody hell on with it' or he 'would kick my bloody head in'. I thought for a moment it was you, Arthur dear. But the man was very large and wearing some bright orange jacket affair. The colour did not suit his colouring and I told him this. A more russet shade would not clash with his clammy white face and mud-coloured eyes. English people hate style and fashion I have found. I moved the car before he 'smashed my bloody face in'. I like my face.

We went down the street and turned right. This was a dual carriageway. Lancelot was by now talking to himself and trying to telephone someone. I took the phone from him and threw it out of the window. It was distracting and also it clearly says that you should not use the mobile phone when in the car. He was quite angry at this. But I was busy. There was a large waste lorry coming towards me. So of course I had to go faster.

I know the speed limit was a paltry 40 miles per hour and I was going 70. I could have gone 130, this Bentley is so gorgeous with its plush leather seats that hug my derriere but there were traffic in front of me so I could not. Many people did get out of my way and Lancelot of course, was screaming.

I find British people so very strange. They are either docilely watching Antiques Roadshow and drinking Ovaltine or they are screaming at you because they believe they are going to die. I told him to calm himself down. There was no chance of course of making a cup of tea. We were in a moving vehicle. I am a competent driver I believe.

There was no need for all those crosses on the test sheet. I would have taken it from him but my hands were full. I was holding a plastic cup with wine in one hand (how I hate wine in a plastic cup but c'est la vie) and a cigarette in the other hand.

I was steering with my knees. I think this is permissible, non? Of course my foot being in plaster did not help so much. But the brick on the accelerator helped a lot so my other foot was free to use the brake.

King Henry screaming in the back was also a bit of a distraction (Prussia at this point muttered, "Just a bit?!") but I have no idea why he was screaming. He is already dead. Think of me! My passing would be mourned the world over. Besides there was no danger. I believe I smiled for the speed cameras and toasted them with my glass. Ah, if only it were a real wine glass. It was so, how do you say, mon ami? ...so crap. Ah well… By now Lancelot was begging me to take him back to the Test Centre.

I told him of course that I would take him back if he would give me a kiss and a pass. He refused. But I told him that I would drive forever, that I was immortal, I could continue for centuries, driving… can you imagine, mes amies? Driving along the North Circular Road for 200 years avec moi until I get my pass? Or until the fuel ran out.

He was steadfast. Determined. I have seen this look before in the British. They are a Nation of shopkeepers, of gardeners, of tea drinkers and ginger biscuit eaters. They look so miserable and sad with their begonias and matching cups and saucers. But they are also immune to fun and all that is good and they will not back down when threatened.

He ordered me to go back and I could not refuse. It reminded me so much of dear Arthur. I told him this and he told me to 'shut the bloody hell up'. So I turned left into Garden Square.

Unfortunately the Test Centre is not in Garden Square and so I had to reverse around a corner. Or something. A bollard got in the way. I may have clipped the wing. King Henry said it was a stupid place to put such a thing.

Then I did an emergency stop. It was an emergency. A real one. My wine had run out. I had not realised that I had drunk a full bottle. A small bottle. A tragedy. I drove on. My tears ran like rain. Then it did rain and I forgot how to switch on the windscreen wipers. This angered Lancelot more than words can say. Or perhaps he was in awe of my driving - finally. King Henry thinks that he might have had some kind of fit. We will never know. I have seen such things before in Arthur.

And so I returned…

* * *

England, still prone on the floor said, "So basically you failed your driving test, drove a perfectly good man to a nervous breakdown, made a dead man scream, broke at least six driving laws, pranged my car, was verbally assaulted by the good motorists of London and basically proved yourself to be an even worse driver than Italy!"

"You take zat back! Italy!?" France was appalled.

At that moment, Italy himself walked in and, hearing his name says, "Ciao!"

'Lancelot' or 'Bill' turned round saw the Italian and said, "Oh no! Not him!" and promptly fainted.

"Did he pass then or what?" Denmark asked, looking round.

 **To be continued…**


	34. Moonage Daydream

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 34 - Moonage Daydream**

At the test centre, England sat with his head in his hands, moaning softly. Even the cup of tea and custard cream did nothing to raise his spirits.

"When I heard you were all going to see Big Brother France pass his driving test I thought I should come along. Mr Pascal, one of the Secret Service men let me go. He's really not so bad. He said that I was a bloody idiot anyway." All this was said at 100 miles per hour by Italy who was waving his arms around at the same time.

England had to agree with 'Mr Pascal's' estimate. He was also wondering why Italy spoke about 'going to see France pass his driving test' as if it were some kind of performance art. It certainly didn't feel like it.

"He said I wasn't a security risk although he still thinks it's my fault that there is going to be an apocalypse or Armageddon. I can't remember which one. Do you know which one, Big Brother France?" Italy continued without pausing for breath.

France shook his head, "Ah, mon petit cher… you should not worry yourself over such things. I do not."

Italy looked at him through half-closed eyes, "Okay!" he said cheerily.

England slowly and gingerly, as if he were recovering from an operation, stepped outside to look at his poor car.

"It's probably best you don't look, mon cher…" France said.

England looked at his beautiful car. His pride and joy. His 'baby'. There was a crumpled front and rear bumper and a huge scratch down the rear left wing. A medieval King sat in the back seat still screaming silently. England understood what he meant.

"I hate you. All of you!" England yelled. "Especially you!" he yelled at France.

"But not me though?" Italy said, bouncing from foot to foot.

England snarled at him.

"It's not so bad. A bit of paint and a hammer to straighten out those bumpers…" Prussia said, swaggering outside and putting an arm around England's shoulders.

"Don't touch me…" England growled, flinching at the idea of someone putting a hammer to his beautiful car.

"Woah! Calm down! No need to go all Battle of Trafalgar on us!" Prussia said. "He's as whiny as Austria," Prussia muttered to Denmark.

"Ah mon cher… I expected zis. I expected a breakdown sooner or later. I blame ze boy living avec nous." France said, referring to America's recent habitation of England's home.

"You are I are not living together!" England yelled, finally standing up. "You are all going to bloody well leave my house and my country and…"

* * *

Ten minutes later as England drove them back to the sports centre, he was still lecturing them.

"…And I want my home and garden back. No more bloody horses and dragons…" England continued.

In the back seat, Denmark was slurping noisily through a straw from a can of Carlsberg. Italy was looking at the Dane worriedly. The slurping sounded some great suction machine.

Prussia was staring out of the window and seemed to be 'thinking'.

King Henry VI was staring at the back of France's head (France was in the passenger seat) still seething after France had slapped him. It had been the only thing that had stopped him from screaming.

"Dude, get Tino to send you money again. Tell him that if he doesn't send money you'll go back and live with them in Helsinki," Prussia finally said to Denmark.

Denmark nodded, slurping noisily.

"That's extortion! Blackmail!" England said, appalled.

"Ja!"

Denmark extricated the straw from his mouth and said to Prussia, "Or ask your bruder for money?"

"Nein, he won't lend me any. Not after the last time…"

"The roller disco?" Denmark asked, raising an eyebrow.

"After that…"

"The ball pool?"

"After that…"

"That ice cream van that you drove through the German Embassy's grounds?"

"Could have been that. I thought it would be good. How was I to know that ice cream cornets weren't appropriate for a State visit? Bunch of misery-guts."

"Ja."

"I like ice cream…" Italy said quietly.

They finally arrived at the Sports Centre. England slouched out of the car towards the centre muttering. "They will rue the day, Tinks. You shut up, Captain Hook. What do you know about it?"

"Is Signor Inghilterra saying something? Luddy thinks he might be having a nervous breakdown," Italy told them as they stepped in the Sports Centre.

King Henry VI said to them, "I don't think Arthur likes me."

"Nobody really likes you, mon cher," France said in commiseration. "If you cheered yourself up a little and perhaps wore somezing a leetle less, je ne sais pas, less gloomy, non?"

"You should dress more teutonic," Prussia butted in.

England twirled his car keys and watched their retreating backs, "I have a cunning plan, Tinks. The cunningest of plans… oh yes…" he laughed evilly and then glanced quickly around. "But shush my friends," he continued to his invisible allies, "Tell no-one!"

"Tell no-one what, dude?" America yelled coming up behind him.

"Aaargh! I really wish you wouldn't do that!" England yelled at him.

"Are you talking to yourself again?" America said and then without waiting for an answer said, "So did Francy-pants pass then or not?"

"Not."

"Well that's to be expected. I mean these Europeans can't drive can they? It's a proven fact."

"I'm a European!"

"Yes but you're not really, are you?"

"Yes I am."

"Yes but you're not, are you?"

"Yes I bloody am."

America thought about this and then said, infuriatingly, "Yes but you're not though really."

"Bloody yanks…" England stomped off after him into the centre...

…To be told they could all go home and the possible 'thermonuclear device' had actually turned out to be a coffee bean grinder.

"I bloody told them…" England muttered, stomping back out. "But oh no… nobody bloody listens to me. Well they will soon when I unleash my secret weapon. Oh yes…"

"It's a sign of madness if you talk to yourself," America said, jogging up beside him.

"You lot will rue the day!" England said, darkly and got in his car. "All of you!" he shouted, slamming the door.

"What's he saying?" America asked as the others followed him into the Secret Service's black people carrier.

"Dunno. Den, did you ring Ber and Tino?" Prussia said.

"I texted them and they said they were going to come across and discuss it…"

"Poor petit cher…" France said sadly.

"Yeah poor petite chair…" America muttered, not understanding at all.

"I worry about him," France said, looking soulfully out of the back window at England as they sped away, leaving England sat in his car in the car park behind a line of cars queuing to get out.

"We all do…" America said, not really listening.

"You do?"

"What? Who? No not really. Mad as a box of monkeys," America replied. "Come on, who's up for MacDonalds? King Henry dude?" He then turned to 'Gaston' who was driving, "Take us to the nearest fast food restaurant and make it snappy!"

Behind them, England seethed. Then there was a banging on the window. He jumped half out of his skin. "Please don't let it be one of the dead kings…" he muttered to himself when he saw a fuzzy hazy figure. It wasn't. It was Canada.

"My brother left me behind! He always does!" he said forlornly. "My country's bigger than his as well…"

"Ah yes. Matthew. Get in. I can give you a lift to the airport."

"Because of this nuclear bomb in your kitchen there aren't any planes taking off," Canada told him. He then turned to Mr Kumajiro who had already called 'shotgun' and was getting into the front passenger seat. "Is there, Mr Kumajiro?"

"No there isn't. But I was staying in London anyway for the rest of week. I have important business to conduct," the bear said importantly.

"It wasn't a bloody nuclear bomb! It was a bloody coffee bean grinder!" England yelled, ignoring the idea forming in his head about Mr Kumajiro having 'business' in the city.

"You have to admit though, it looks very suspicious," Canada said from the back seat.

"Suspicious? How? How can it be suspicious? I didn't order the damned thing!"

"That's not how the security services are seeing it though, are they, Mr Kumajiro?"

"No, they're not. Agent Washington told me in confidence that there would be questions asked…" the polar bear ladened the words 'questions asked' with hidden meaning. Certainly hidden to England.

"Who in God's name is Agent Washington?" he yelled.

"I'm saying no more," the bear said, but tapped his nose with his paw.

"Mr Kumajiro has level 4 security clearance," Canada explained to England.

"What?"

"The equivalence to a four star general," Canada said.

England wondered if he'd slipped into some kind of parallel universe where bears were important people with 'business contacts' and had security clearance. He shook his head.

* * *

He soon found out when he got home and found the other Nations there. The Secret Service/CIA men had apparently been replaced by two new ones - according to France - who named them 'Francois' and 'Sebastian'. Neither looked like a 'Francois' or a 'Sebastian' and to England they looked exactly like the others. But they both saluted Mr Kumajiro much to England's disgust.

France greeted him, looking gloriously excited, "Mon cher, I have to tell you, don't get angry…"

"Angry about what? I'm already angry. I've been angry since the 11th century and stop bloody calling me mon cher!" he said. There were still some bomb disposal men in his kitchen, trying to carefully put the coffee grinder machine thingy back together. They looked nervous. He had no idea why they looked so nervous. It wouldn't click with him until later as to what or who had made them tremble.

"Ah oui," France shrugged this off as if he'd expected this. "Danemark and leetle Prussie are putting up a huge erection in ze lounge."

England shuddered, "I don't want to hear any more. And what the bloody hell are these idiots still doing here?" he pointed at the bomb disposal men.

"They have to fix the coffee grinder! They took it to pieces thinking it was a nuclear bomb. I thought you knew. Do you have problems with your memory as well? Because Luddy says he has problems with his. He has whole centuries missing from his memory. I know because he told me and I think I know where they went but I'm not allowed to say…" Italy said, his arms windmilling round and round.

England did not understand any of this at all and tried to ignore Italy pulling out a large pan and proceeding to make pasta. He had no idea where the packets of pasta had come from. His own kitchen cupboards were now a mystery to him since France had moved in.

He went into the lounge with trepidation. The large 'erection', said with such creepiness by France, was a tent. Prussia and Denmark were trying to erect it and failing badly. One was holding one end of a the large bright red, blue and yellow striped material and the other was holding the other.

The word 'pop-up' on the box was a misnomer. It did not 'pop-up' at all. The box had a photograph of two happy smiling shiny children and the instructions said: 'for ages 4 years upward'.

"It says hold out the top two poles…" Prussia read slowly.

"There aren't two top poles!" Denmark said.

"How many are there?"

Denmark held up a large clump of metal and red, blue and yellow canvas. "Four." He said finally. England was amazed he could count that high.

"Hmmm…" Prussia scratched his head.

"Man, I need a beer."

"Get that bloody thing out of my bloody house!" England yelled.

They ignored him. "I'm pulling two poles but nothing's happening," Denmark said. His mouth hung open and he looked more gormless than usual.

"I never have a problem with putting up erections," France leered.

England closed his eyes. He'd expected that remark.

"I can't see the TV!" America complained.

"You're supposed to have bloody flu!" England yelled.

"I'm convalescing! I'm trying to get my XBox to work but your TV's rubbish and I can't see for Pru and Den getting in the way!" America yelled back.

England was about to battle his way through the unopened tent that filled his lounge and bodily throw the 'Awesome Trio' out but he was interrupted…

"Zere is someone coming up the garden path," France announced. He looked concerned. He was twisting a duster in his hands.

"Who is it? Please tell me it's the US Consulate come to take Alfred away? Or the German Embassy? Or even.. The Danish Embassy, although God knows I think they've washed their hands of him."

"Yes, that was after he got the Crown Prince drunk and they rode a motorbike through the grounds while wearing gorilla costumes," France said.

Denmark and Prussia high-fived each other.

England shook the image away from his head and went through to the kitchen, ignored Italy who was singing some aria while he stirred a quite nice-smelling but suspicious-looking (to England) pasta sauce.

"I have a terrible feeling about zis," France whispered to England as he was about to open the door.

Nobody had actually knocked or even used the doorbell, England thought, but he sensed an ominous presence behind the door. "Do you think it's suddenly got cold?" England asked, turning round to look at Italy and France.

They obviously did. Both had stopped in their tracks. Italy had a dripping spoon halfway to his mouth, France was looking pale and shaken. Henry VI was hiding under the table muttering about 'dark forces'.

Before England could say anything more the doorbell played 'Jingle Bells' and then there was a clang and the tune died in the air as someone or something ripped it off the wall.

And then the door splintered from top to bottom and a piece of lead piping appeared in the hole.

England jumped back. "Oh my God…" he cried. He knew who it was.

"Dobroye utro, comrades!" the large figure said as it came storming into the kitchen through splinters of wood, carrying with it a flurry of sleet, "Or is it dobriy den?" the figure gave England his doorbell back.

"It's erm… I have no idea. How nice to see you, Mr Russia," England said but was shoved out of the way by the two CIA men. England suspected they would regret their attempts at 'security clearance' with Russia.

"Mr Russia we need you to drop the weapon and put your hands in the air." But 'Francois' did not have chance to finish as he was pinned by his throat against a wall by one very large Russian hand.

'Sebastian' was face-palmed and fell flat on the floor.

"Oh non! Zay are just innocent humans who are protecting leetle Alfie!" France whined and ran to 'Sebastian' and cradled the man's head. "Talk to me, Sebastian!"

Russia just shrugged and dropped 'Francois', who fell to his knees, clutching his throat.

"I came to see Italy," Russia said simply.

Italy jumped into England's arms, "Save me Signore Inghilterra!" he cried.

"Get off me!" England said, dropping him.

Russia smiled. He was twisting a piece of bathroom plumbing into a heart. England noted, with a surge of repressed anger that it was from his own bloody bathroom.

"We have a business deal to conduct," Russia said.

"What's going on? Who called me 'Alfie'?" Alfred said coming in. He saw Russia and then the downed CIA men and looked concerned. "Aw man! They were going to go out and get me some icecream!"

"There will be no more ice cream…" Russia said ominously.

England felt a shiver run down his back.

Prussia and Denmark, crowding in behind America, took one look at the downed Secret Service men, Russia and then at France attempting a rather too enthusiastic mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and slowly crept out. They obviously got entangled in the tent and ran out of the front door.

England couldn't help but smile at this. At least he'd got rid of two of the Nations…

Canada, however, didn't seem too bothered. "Hello Mr Russia, are you here for the security meeting?"

"Oh da! That as well!" Russia said cheerily.

"You're not supposed to know about that!" Mr Kumajiro told Canada. "I doubt you have the security clearance."

"Mr Kumajiro!" Russia cried, delighted and dropped his bathroom plumbing and ran forward taking the polar bear cub into his arms giving him a huge hug.

"Get off me!" the bear said.

"What security meeting?" England asked, trying to ignore the still choking CIA man who was trying to radio in 'back-up' and 'Sebastian' coming to consciousness being snogged by France.

"United Nations Security Council meeting," Russia told him, putting the polar bear cub on the ground and patting his head - something England would never dream of doing. (Mr Kumajiro glared up at the Russian and kicked him in the ankle, Russia didn't seem to notice.)

"Oh yeah… we forgot to tell you," America said, stuffing some cookies in his mouth.

"So that's why you're here? Not really to see me?" Italy said, from under the table.

Russia bent his 6 foot 2 inch frame down and peered under the table. "I'm here to see everyone. Even you, Mr King Henry!" (Henry VI trembled.) "Mr England texted me!" he said this happily. "Nobody ever ever texts me not unless I order them to. Like Estonia and Lithuania…" here Russia seemed to go off into a little reverie and then shook himself out of it. "But Mr England did. He invited me here… to stay…"

 **To be continued…**


	35. Everybody Wants to Rule the World

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 35 Everybody Wants to Rule the World**

"Who's he?" America asked England, pointing ostentatiously down the long table.

"Shut up and didn't I teach you that it's rude to point?" England said.

"Yes but who is he?" America asked again.

"How do I know?"

"Man, I don't know half of these people. Shouldn't it just be me, you, Francy-pants, although I don't know why, China and Fat Russkie?"

"Shush! Do you want to get us killed?" England hissed. He then put up his hand and asked a man in black trousers and a white shirt if they could bring some tea and biscuits.

"I'm not a waiter! I'm Ethiopia!" said the man. "Imperialist!"

They were sat around a long table in a high-ceilinged room. Secret Service men guarded the door.

It was a UN Security Council meeting and England found himself in the unfortunate position of having America one side and France the other. France lounged in his chair, fiddling with his phone. Across from them sat Russia who stared intently at England. Next to Russia sat a very tall dark Nation who England assumed was some ex Soviet Republic. Next to him was a South American Nation who England didn't know. China sat at the head of the table and seemed to be in charge. Italy sat next to him and was muttering to himself and looked as if he were going to cry.

"They are rotating members of the Council," England whispered to America and smiled at Ethiopia as an apology.

"What do you mean? They're not rotating?" America said loudly.

England rolled his eyes. "For God's sake. There's a rotating membership! There's us - the permanent members…"

"God, I'm bored now…" America moaned.

"Shut up and try not to say anything too stupid. I'm sure all this can be sorted out…"

"Who are you anyway?" America yelled to the South American across from them.

"I'm Bolivia," the man said. He glared at America.

"Right… Shouldn't you be wearing a poncho?" America asked.

England nudged him so hard he was sure he'd bruised the Superpower.

"What did I say? Oh right… a sombrero then?" America said.

Everyone shook their heads.

"I've got a sombrero!" Russia piped up cheerily.

"Can we get on with the meeting?" England said with a sigh.

"We're still waiting for some members to arrive," China told him.

"Mine is really big!" Russia said, extending his hands either side of his big blond head. He was obviously referring to his sombrero but France almost fell off his chair.

"Can we at least have some tea and biscuits?" England asked again.

"You're obsessed with bloody tea, you are," someone said behind him.

England turned round and found himself face to face with his brother along with King Malcolm.

"Ah King Malcolm… I wondered how you'd got on."

"Aye, I got arrested at Kings Cross Station. There is no King there, nor no cross. It was a mis-advertisement. So was the Sunny Delight from the vending machine," the King said. "It was not a delight," he said sombrely and took a seat next to Bolivia and introduced himself. "Hallo, I'm King Malcolm of Scotland."

"Erm… Hola?" Bolivia said slowly.

"Erm I think, King Malcolm, that you'll find you're not invited to this meeting," England said.

"I'm a Head of State I am!" King Malcolm announced.

Scotland sat next to him. "Aye he is."

"Yes about 900 years ago," England said.

"Your Scottish mates are completely crazy!" America said.

"I asked them to come," Russia said, smiling.

"Hola means hello in Spanish," America confided to England.

"I know that!"

America looked disappointed and took the pen that was in front of him (they all had a pad and pen on the table in front of them) and began taking it apart.

The door opened and Sweden walked in, he greeted them all and sat down.

"I don't suppose you know if there's any tea to be had?" England asked.

"I'm not a waiter!" Sweden told him.

"I didn't say you were but…"

"Stop obsessing about your bloody tea, yer bloody Sassenach!" Scotland yelled.

"And you can shut up! You weren't even invited!" England countered.

"I'm with a head of state!" Scotland countered.

"So am I!" England said and pointed at King Henry VI in the corner. "Oh bloody get up will you? Mr Russia's not even looking at you." He added.

"Yes I am," Russia said.

England shook his head.

"Who's the dude with you, Russia?" America asked.

"Kazakhstan!" Russia said.

Kazakhstan stood up and bowed.

"Wow…" America looked suitably impressed. "Is that like erm…" he looked to England.

"I don't know… next to Russia, I think."

"He is one of my Soviet brothers!" Russia said happily. He then nodded to Kaz, "You can sit down now," he ordered.

Kazakhstan nodded. "I was going to bring all my brothers, the Stans, but I was not allowed to." He looked at Russia fearfully.

"A Stan party is not a good thing," Russia said wisely. "London would not be a good place afterwards."

"Really?" England looked bemused.

"Really." Russia confirmed. He glanced at Kazakhstan, who looked bashful.

"I have not brought any balloons with me this time, Big Brother Russia," Kaz said. "Or my yak," Kaz added.

"Balloons?" England ventured.

"Big Brother Russia does not like balloons," Kaz explained.

"They make me jump when they pop," Russia explained.

America snorted.

Russia glared at him. "Nobody wants to make me jump," he warned with a growl.

"Who in the name of cricket are we waiting for?" England demanded, trying to dispel the sudden drop in temperature and the rising tension.

The doors were flung open, the security men saluted and a rather short person returned their salute.

"Okay everyone? All present?" the person asked the security men.

They nodded, "Yes Sir."

It was Mr Kumajiro, dressed in badminton whites and brandishing a racquet. He wore a sweatband around his head and one on his right wrist. "Let's get this over and done with, shall we?" he told them all.

Everyone gaped. Apart from Russia and China who both nodded.

"What in the bloody hell?" England blurted out.

"It's Mr Kumajiro," America whispered.

"I know who it is!" England yelled.

"Is this some kind of joke!" said someone else. It was Italy. He jumped to his feet and then sat back down, muttering to himself. In fact he wasn't just muttering to himself. He was muttering to a microphone inside his jacket lapel, but the others couldn't see this.

Everyone frowned at Italy.

"Can we please just get on?" England asked exasperated.

"Yes precisely. I have a badminton match later with the US Ambassador," Mr Kumajiro told them.

"Can polar bears play badminton?" Bolivia countered.

"Why not? There's a court at the US Embassy," Mr Kumajiro said.

"I think Mr Bolivia is asking because you don't have opposable thumbs," England pointed out.

Some of the Nations nodded. But only 'some'.

"Don't you oppress me!" Mr Kumajiro said and then added, "I don't have time for this!"

"Yes, let's get on with this meeting to shame England and his despicable altitude!" Italy cried out.

"Altitude?" England said, frowning.

"What?" America said. "You've lost me, dude."

"I mean attitude…" Italy said and put his head in his hands and was whispering again into his jacket lapel pocket. He was also fiddling with an earpiece.

"Take that bloody earpod thingy out of your ears, silly little Italian and can we please just get some bloody tea in here!" England yelled.

"Yer a disgrace, brother. Yer shouldn't be shouting at the younger Nations like that," Scotland said.

The door opened and Canada came in with a tea trolley. "I'm bigger than most of you here," he was muttering. He banged the tea tray on the table and slammed a plate of biscuits down next to it and slammed out.

"I'm bigger than him," Russia said proudly.

France sniggered. He was still on his phone.

England snatched it off him, "Will you bloody put that away and concentrate?"

"Give that back! It's important!"

"What is this?" England peered at the screen. "Candy crash?"

"Crush!" France yelled.

The other Nations had been quietly discussing the security implications of England's house being the centre of a thermonuclear device when France shouted, "Crush crush crush, you stupid Englishman!"

"I say!" England said quietly and poured himself a cup of tea. He pocketed France's phone. "I'll take this. You can't be trusted."

France crossed his arms and went into a massive sulk.

"So are we all agreed that England is hereby not allowed a military? A show of hands, please?" Mr Kumajiro said.

"Aye…" a flurry of hands went up.

"Wait? What?" England took a bite of a custard cream and spat it out. He knocked America's enthusiastic hand down quickly. "Put your bloody hand down, Alfred!"

"Well you cannot be trusted with a coffee bean grinder, England," China said wisely, his hand up.

"Da. I agree with Mr China. He is very wise," Russia nodded.

"I agree with Big Brother Russia because he's bigger than me," Kazakhstan said. "Now this is over can I visit the zoo?"

France kept his arms crossed. "I'm having nothing to do avec zis. And because I am a permanent member of ze security council I can veto ze vote."

"Nobody's listening to you," Russia said.

"Right, thank you everyone. Now I can go to my match…" Mr Kumajiro said, picking up his racquet.

"I agree. Mr England cannot keep his armbands… I mean armies… I said armies… and his navals. He cannot be trusted because he's… a silly person," Italy was saying and then said in an undertone, "I'm not saying that, Luddy. I like Mr England…"

"What are you talking about, Italy?" Ethiopia piped up. He also had his hand up, England noted. "You were always an idiot. I'm ashamed I was invaded by you and your idiots."

Italy burst into tears, "I'm sorry… I don't know why I did it. And there was nowhere to make pasta in a desert. Luddy was right!"

England shook his head.

America's mouth dropped open.

Russia sat back and smiled. "They will all fall in the end," he said quietly.

"Perhaps everyone should give up their military and spend the money on looking after each other?" Ethiopia said.

Someone choked on their tea.

France brushed his blond hair back and stared at the African Nation.

America laughed nervously.

Russia growled and bent his lead pipe into the shape of a flower.

Italy stood up and announced in a loud voice, "But NATO is the whalebone of Europe! I mean backbone! It's impervious, imperative I mean, that we keep our defensibles aimed at the Bread Army… no… Red Army and our moustaches? No, missiles… this doesn't sound right…" Italy sat down looking confused.

England stood up, strode around the table, and with a force that made Italy yelp, pulled the hidden earpiece out of Italy's ear. "Ha! We have a mole within our midst…"

"How can it be within our midst if it's hidden?" America said, putting his hand up.

"Shut up, Alfred! Someone has been telling Italy what to say," England declared.

"It wasn't me!" Russia said, but he glared at Italy.

"Someone who wants a Bread Army!" America said, nodding and rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

England shook his head.

"We have a spy?" France looked delighted.

The doors slammed open and Germany strode in, "Ja! It was me! I was not invited to this meeting. I'm not one of the rotating members this year and…"

"You could just spin…" America said in what he thought was being helpful.

"WHAT?!" Germany looked ready to explode.

"He means… He thinks rotating means…" England began.

"Da, you should spin." Russia growled.

"Well that's that wrapped up," Mr Kumajiro said and jumped down from his seat. "If anyone needs me, I'll be at the US Embassy absolutely hammering the Ambassador at badminton."

Mr China stopped him, "Erm Mr Kumajiro, I don't suppose you've seen Panda lately? He said he had a meeting with you…?"

"We're meeting for badminton on Thursday," the polar bear said and strolled out, nodding at the Secret Service men saluting him. "Bye!" he shouted over his shoulder.

"Odd…" China muttered.

"Never mind all that! I should have been in this meeting and in my absence, I gave Italy a microphone and an earpiece so that I could give him guidance," Germany told them.

"Fine but you can tell all these jokers that I should have a military," England told him.

"I happen to agree that you should not have a military. You obviously can't be trusted," Germany said in that pompous voice England hated so much.

"But… but… but…" England stammered and stuttered, "You need my military! NATO is a bullwark, the backbone and I'm in NATO!" he shouted finally.

"Oh no, I don't mean your country shouldn't have a military. Of course it should," Germany said.

England sat down and relaxed.

Russia snarled. "We did a vote!" he growled in a very low voice. The air grew very cold.

Kazakhstan was creeping out of the door along with Bolivia (they were planning on 'hitting the town'). Scotland was grinning with mischievous delight. France was drinking from a wine bottle and trying to pick England's pocket to get his phone back. Sweden was nodding along with Germany. Ethiopia was shaking his head. America was still confused about the 'rotating' problem.

"I mean you shouldn't be in charge of a military," Germany said.

"Bugger off!" England spluttered.

"So do they not rotate then?" America asked finally.

Everyone ignored him.

Scotland smiled, "He means, dear brother, that I should be in charge. That I should, finally, after 300 years of being under your bloody rule, I get to be in charge of the United bloody Kingdom! I, the great and glorious and oldest Kingdom of Alba and Caledonia, will be the personification of Great bloody Britain!" He sat down and nodded at King Malcolm who nodded back.

"You can't be bloody serious?!" England said, staring around the room.

"I think it's for the best, until you get professional help," Germany told him.

Sweden nodded, "We've thought it for a long time."

Russia stood up, almost taking the table with him and stormed out. "I hate NATO anyway," he called back behind him, "Any club that does not have the great Russia in it is not a club!"

China turned to England, "We're all very concerned about you, Arthur."

England turned to America, "Alfred? What do you think?"

"I think you need to rotate…"

England frowned, unsure what the American was on about or whether he was insulting him. So instead, he asked France, "Francis? Surely you can't agree with this?" He then added, "And can you get your bloody hand out of my pocket?"

France turned to him, "Well mon cher. I do zink zat you should give me my phone back and you have been under a lot of stress lately and I do zink zat your mental prowess has been compromised. But you know zat I will always support you, mon cher."

"Well you can all absolutely bugger off, I am the personification of the United Kingdom!" he yelled and sat back down with a sense of righteousness.

But then his phone vibrated in his pocket. He found that there was several missed calls from the Prime Minister and indeed, it was the PM on the phone. "Oh right.. I see…" he answered, listening. "Well if it's like that…" he said through gritted teeth. He hung up before he could listen to any more. The cheek of the woman! Who did she think she was? Who were these people? Of course he wasn't demented or had 'issues'! How ridiculous.

And now he'd been told to stand down as the United Kingdom/Great Britain until he'd had a 'psychological assessment', whatever that bloody meant.

"Well?" France and America both said at once.

England just growled, stood up and looked around the room. "Well good luck you bloody treasonous buggers with my brother here. I'll be amazed if he hasn't started several wars by the end of the week!" he announced and stomped off out of the room.

France and America jumped up and ran after him.

 **To be continued…**


	36. All the Madmen

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 36 All the Madmen**

The receptionist at the Mental Wellness Clinic looked up as the automatic door slid open. It had been a quiet morning so far but this was about to change radically. In fact, the receptionist wasn't to know it but her whole world perspective was about to change.

Four persons walked in. In fact, two walked in, one stumbled and one hopped.

"I bloody told you it was automatic! You don't have to bloody keep pushing the bloody door, you imbecile!" shouted a man with very messy hair, wearing a crumpled suit that had seen better days.

"Oh mon dieu! Zis is terrible. Such out of date furnishings. Look at ze carpet, mon cher. We have to go." This was from the man who had hopped in on crutches. He had flowing blond locks, was wearing indecently tight jeans and had the air of some louche washed-up nightclub owner.

"I tell yer, man, I thought it said 'push'."

"But it didn't, did it, Alfred? Stop being daft."

The one called 'Alfred', an American who would have passed for handsome if he wasn't dressed in a Spiderman costume, frowned and said, "What's daft mean?"

"You know very well what it means."

The fourth person was a depressed-looking young man dressed as a King. He snivelled and didn't look happy to be in the company of the other three.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"Oui! You can tell me why such a gorgeous creature as yourself is working in a dump like zis?" the Frenchman said.

The receptionist sat back abruptly on her swivel chair as the Frenchman leaned in leering down her blouse.

The messy-haired man shoved him out of the way, "I'll deal with this, Francis," he said. "I'm sorry about my idiot friend, miss. I'm here for…" he didn't get to finish as the loud American butted in.

"Yo! Artie is here for a psychic session!"

"It's a psychotherapy session, Alfred!" the messy-haired individual yelled turning on the American.

"Why would he want a psychic session?" the Frenchman said, shaking his head and leaning against the reception desk, nonchalantly filing his nails.

"That's what I said! He needs it cos he's going round the bend!" the American yelled.

"I'm not going round the bend!" the scruffy Englishman yelled back.

"You have anger management issues, mon cher," the Frenchman drawled, blowing filings from his nails and observing his handiwork.

"You can bloody well shut up!" the Englishman shouted.

"Erm…yes.. Name please?" the receptionist asked. She was already thinking about going home early and wondered if she should call security.

"Alfred. Alfred F Jones. Lieutenant-Colonel Alfred F Jones," the American said confidently. The receptionist noted that he was covered in cat-hairs. "Ignore them people out there. They're my main dudes…" Alfred said, pointing at the two big men in suits guarding the door outside.

The receptionist hadn't noticed them. The American, the Englishman, the Frenchman and the sad-looking silent man in the paper crown and medieval cloak had her complete attention.

"I think she means me, you berk," the Englishman said, prodding the American.

"My name is Francis Bonaparte de Chevalier Bonnefoy," the Frenchman said and took her hand and kissed it dramatically. "Je suis francais."

"Oh right…" she replied, taking her hand away quickly and wiped it surreptitiously on her jacket, trying not to comment on this outrageous name.

"They don't want to know your names, you bloody fools!" the Englishman yelled. He had a facial tic, the receptionist noted and looked like a man on the edge.

"We operate a full confidential service," the receptionist said helpfully.

"What other services do you offer? Massage?" Francis asked leering.

She ignored him.

"My name is Arthur Kirkland and I'm here for counselling. I have to be here to get my job back. These… these… traitorous… imbecilic morons…" here Arthur's tic grew worse and his left eyebrow twitched alarmingly, "…They gave my job to my brother!"

"You need a rest though, mon cher," Francis said, putting a hand on the Englishman's shoulder and then moving it lovingly (or pervily depending on your view) down his back.

"Get off me you bloody pervert!" shouted Arthur, whose view was obvious.

"Yeah dude, you were getting dangerous. You can't be in charge of a military and be totally nuts!" Alfred said.

England turned to look at him and tried very very hard not to laugh.

The receptionist looked at the diary, "Ah yes, Mr Kirkland. We have you down for two o' clock. An urgent appointment?"

"I'll say…" Alfred muttered, looking around.

"You have some need to bloody talk! In your bloody Spiderman costume! Bloody moron!" England snapped.

"Can I have my phone back before you go in?" Francis asked and then added, with a wink to the receptionist, "I am on a high level of Candy Crush…I am very good with my hands."

"It's not as good as Call of Duty," Alfred said and began karate-kicking around the room.

"And they said I was mad…" Arthur said slowly and pulled a phone out of his back pocket and threw it at the Frenchman.

"Erm… you can go in now," the receptionist said and hoped to God that he wouldn't be long and would take his 'friends' with him soon.

"Thank you, young lady. I'm sorry I didn't get your name?" Arthur said.

"Hahahahaha! Arty-dude trying out his lame chat-up lines!" Alfred yelled.

Arthur ignored him.

"If you'll just go through the door and it's the second door on the left," the receptionist said quietly.

'Mr Kirkland' trudged off dejectedly. "Bloody hate the lot of them. All of them. They will all rue the bloody day. All of them. When my brother starts World War Three they will all be ringing me to sort it out!" he was saying as he entered the psychotherapist's office. He flung himself down onto the couch, still muttering, "Damned morons…"

"Tell me your problems… Arthur! What are you doing here?"

England almost fell off the couch, "Austria! Of all the bloody people! You! What in the name of Geoff Boycott are you doing here?"

"I'm a certified psychotherapist!"

"You're certified alright…"

"Well you may or may not know but some of the best psychiatrists were Austrian."

"Freud was Swiss wasn't he?" England said.

"He was Austrian!" Austria all but screeched.

"I don't suppose you have any tea?" England asked finally.

Austria made notes, "Obsession with tea," he said as he wrote.

"And any biscuits? Bourbon creams? Custard creams?"

"So… why are you here, England?"

"Why are any of us here?" England said.

"No I mean why are _you_ in particular here?"

"We could ask that question of ourselves all day long couldn't we?" England countered, pulling at a thread on his jacket.

"I'm asking _you_ ," Austria said emphasising the 'you' and gritting his teeth.

England shrugged. "I have no idea. They think I'm mad! Can you believe that?"

"We prefer not to use the word 'mad'."

"Crazy then."

"Or crazy."

"Bonkers."

"Or that…" Austria was by now gripping his pen so hard it broke. He reached for another and flipped the paper over on his pad.

"Doolally."

"Shall we move on?"

"Righty-o."

"Your boss rang and arranged an appointment with us…"

"So you got a job then?" England interrupted.

"Yes, I got a job," Austria growled.

"Wow."

"What do you mean?" Austria's pen poised over the pad and he glared at England.

"Well I mean wow. You've never had a job before have you?"

"Of course I have."

England ignored this answer and carried on. "I mean we've all been in the military," here England sat up straighter and undid and then redid his tie.

"So have I."

"Not really though. I mean not like Alfred, Russia, Germany and I. I think even France had a mess about in the military. Did you know he has the rank of Colonel? I mean honestly!" England continued to pick at the thread on his jacket and began pulling it absent-mindedly as he talked.

Austria wrinkled his nose at the talk of the other Nations and made a note 'obsessed with France'.

"Anyway, all these idiots have come to live with me and if you had them living with you then you'd go a bit mad."

Austria looked up from writing 'martyr complex'. "I had Italy, Hungary, Miss Belarus, Miss Ukraine, Holy Rome and various Germanic mini states all living with me at some point or another, Arthur. So don't talk to me about your problems!" he exclaimed.

"Miss Ukraine?"

"Galicia, a large erm… portion of West Ukraine…" Austria said and broke another pen.

England blushed. "I say! What about Miss Belarus?"

"She arrived as a package deal with her sister. It was awful. They caused chaos," Austria moaned and took off his glasses, wiped them and put them back on. "That was when I took up the violin. You have no idea, Arthur, what I went through."

"I have an idea," England said with feeling, "Have you ever lived with France? The man's a pig."

"I have not had that pleasure. And I thank God. Daily."

"Yes well… it's a nightmare. A bloody nightmare. Dealing with France's trousers everyday," England said and shifted uncomfortably at the memory of his wearing of France's pants.

Austria looked up and grimaced and wrote, 'sexually repressed homosexual'.

"And then there's my bloody brother. God I hate him!" England by now had pulled on the thread of his jacket so much he had unraveled a good portion of his jacket. He stood up, agitated and began pacing the room. "He's a complete…" England was distracted by the phone in his pocket playing 'All the Single Ladies'. "What in the name of…" he muttered and pulled it out. "I can't remember putting this bloody stupid phone case on it!" he declared.

The phone had a case depicting the Eiffel tower covered in lipstick marks. (Unbeknown to England he had got France's phone and France had his.)

Austria shook his head. "Perhaps you should hand it to me?"

England ignored him. "I have no idea who this is. I mean really? Who calls themselves 'Sexy Beast 666'?"

"I don't know, I'm sure…" Austria said.

"And it's in bloody French!" England was appalled. "What kind of bloody idiot would send me a text in French?"

Austria tried to continue, "So tell me your problems with your brother. We do find that a lot of our clients have sibling rivalries…"

"My brother? You think it was my brother who sent this? Yes, you're probably right…"

"No, I think…"

"How do you say bugger off in French?"

"Arthur…"

"Never mind… how do you press reply on this thing? I don't understand this modern technology, do you?"

Austria got up and snatched the phone from his hands. He uttered a lot of words in angry German and pressed a few buttons. He then stared at the screen. "This is disgusting!" he exclaimed. "I have never seen such depravity!"

"What?" England asked.

"You really need help, England. I really don't know if I'm the one to offer it!"

"What?" England asked again, trying to take the phone from him.

"These text messages! Mein Gott!"

"I don't know what you mean!" England said. He really didn't.

"Your choice of conversational matter is dubious to say the least," Austria said with a sniff.

"What do you mean? Ordering a new garden shed? Discussing with my brother Wales about the best time to plant potatoes? Asking the Prince of Wales when he planted his tomatoes last year?"

"You disgust me."

"I don't have time for this," England said. "You and your pomposity. I have to get my Nationhood back!"

But Austria wasn't listening, he was staring out of the window and what he saw there suddenly made him scream in a rather girlish way.

England shook his head, took 'his' phone from him and then unfortunately turned to look at what had made the Austrian scream.

England jumped, startled. As well he might. It was France, with a part of his anatomy pressed against the window. The Frenchman was gesticulating obscenely at them.

"Bloody hell!" England yelled.

"Get out of my office and never darken my door again!"

"I will!" England said and stomped out.

On his way out he bumped into 'Lancelot', the poor man glared at England. "You ruined my life! You and your gay boyfriend!"

"We. Are. Not. Living. Together!" England yelled.

'Lancelot' went into Dr Edelstein's office, slamming the door.

"We're leaving!" Arthur announced to the reception area.

There was no-one there.

"Oh."

Alfred was outside talking to the receptionist.

"I'm a Lieutenant-Colonel in the US Air Force!" he was telling the poor woman.

She was smoking. The poor woman had actually given up many years ago but recent events meant that a cigarette was necessary.

"Alfred, come on, we're leaving."

"Are you better then now, Artie?"

England ignored him. He was busy trying to cover up the fact that his jacket had unraveled so much it was halfway up his back.

"What happened to your lame dude jacket, man?"

"Shut up!" England hissed. "Can you go get the car?" he asked 'Gaston', 'Pierre', 'Pascal' or whoever was Security Service bodyguard duty for the day.

"We don't take orders from you, Kirkland," one of them said.

He sighed. "Can one of you at least go get Francis? He was gesticulating rather obscenely through a window earlier. Completely ruined my so-called session with the so-called psychotherapist."

"Did he tell you your fortune?" Alfred asked.

"What?"

"Your fortune? Yer know, tell you your future?"

"I saw a psychotherapist, Alfred, not a psychic. They're two different things."

"That's what you think," Alfred said. He winked at the receptionist, who went back inside. "Hey look! It says there on that notice Pilots Course, all welcome!" America shouted, pointing at a notice on the entrance door.

England turned to read it, "It says Pirates," England said, squinting.

(Neither were actually correct.)

"You should wear glasses, man. It totally says Pilots. And we should go. Sports Centre Wednesdays. That's tomorrow. You should do more hobbies." America told him, he then added under his breath, "Now you're retired."

England stared at him and shook his head.

France actually came loping round the corner. "We have to leave now, mon amies!" he shouted.

"You mooned at Austria didn't you?" England said in a resigned voice as they ran for the car. "And what happened to your limp?"

"Moi? But of course. It was Roderich - who's face I would like to lick. And Lancelot who is in lust with me I am sure."

"You're such a weird little pervert, France," England puffed. Why on earth hadn't they parked closer, he thought.

The Secret Service men ushered them into the black people carrier and slammed the doors.

"They know where you live. You'll be done for indecent exposure," England said confidently.

France shrugged. "Can I have my phone back? Yours is rubbish. I was on level 100 on Candy Crush."

England practically threw the phone at him. He vowed to wash his hands thoroughly later. "You're disgusting."

"Level 100 is pretty good, man." Alfred said.

"I'm not bloody talking about silly games, Alfred!" England said.

"You need to stop shouting and calm down, dude."

England's phone began ringing. The ringtone was the Coronation Street theme tune. He was relieved that France had not changed it. But the Frenchman had evidently changed all the contact names - as the person ringing him was apparently 'ManEater'. England did not know anyone named thus.

"Who in God's name is this?" he yelled and then said quietly, "Ah yes, Ma'am…" and glared at France. It was the Prime Minister of Great Britain.

"You need to take up yoga," Alfred said. "That's what people do when they retire. And gardening."

"His allotment," France said with a shudder as if this was the most awful thing in the world.

"Yeah but he's been banned by that Society hasn't he?" Alfred said.

France nodded.

They were having this conversation whilst England was nodding to the Prime Minister's instructions. Eventually England interrupted and said, "Yes but Ma'am, my brother of all people! I really must object. He will start World War 3! You have no idea what you have done." Then he hung up with a dejected air. He looked around.

"Yoga," Alfred said simply and then nodded.

England could not take anyone seriously who was wearing a Spiderman costume. "I don't care about your Star Wars characters. I told you I'm not some bloody little Yoga person."

"He means ze exercise regime."

"You need to do something, dude. We'll go to that Pilots training course tomorrow at the Sports Centre."

France looked from one to the other. "Qui?"

"No, not 'key'. Pilots. You two are going to learn to fly!" America said, his eyes shining.

England shook his head and leaned his head back against the seat. He had a headache. He'd also forgotten they'd left King Henry VI of England behind…

* * *

The next day would find him with more than a headache. It would find him stuck in what the fitness instructor called a 'reverse curl' and realising that he shouldn't listen to Alfred about anything and that his 1000 year old plus body was not as bendy as it used to be. He also would find that they had a new 'roomie'…


	37. Absolute Beginners

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 37 - Absolute Beginners**

"You were right, this isn't about Pilots at all! I wondered when we were going to get on with the flying but that lady there," America pointed at the Pilates instructor at the front, a woman with a determined expression, stood on one leg, "Says that there are no planes and that we need to get on with it or get out."

They were in the community sports hall. 'They' being England, America and France. The three Nations had doggedly turned up for a class in what each of them believed was something else. Although what on earth France thought it was, was a mystery.

England was disappointed that it wasn't a Pirates class. Although to be honest, he would have been surprised if it was.

France, dressed in lurid purple flares, smoking a cigarette was stood on one leg on the mat next to England.

"Zis is so very difficult," he moaned to the Englishman.

England agreed. Trying to attempt the exercise regime in a tweed suit was very very difficult. He'd been told to take off his shoes and was embarassed to note that his socks had holes in them the size of the outer London ring road.

America on the mat the other side of France (the Nation not the country) was also stood on one leg. But he made it appear effortless. This annoyed England somewhat.

"Just do what they do!" America yelled.

England winced.

They were the only male members of the class (and that wasn't a euphemism for anything). The rest of the class being made up of elderly women with an average age of 60. They all had tutted as the Nations walked in. England would have tutted at them also but they all looked quite formidable and he felt a little intimidated.

America had stormed into the room wearing his US Air Force uniform and goggles, declaring that he would show them all how it was done. Whilst Arthur and France were wearing suits. Suits for what turned out to be an exercise class.

All three of them had been totally oblivious to the polar bear and panda walking past them in their badminton gear…

"Now we're going to do three roll-downs, if you can touch your toes," the instructor told them.

England doubted very much he would be able to touch his toes, his 1000 plus year old spine was not as bendy as it used to be. He was in dire need of a cup of tea. But this exercise class should surely count towards the 'rehabilitation' that his Prime Minister had required of him.

France was also not in prime condition either. All that wine and a pack of cigarettes a day, together with several lifetimes of rich food and a highly debauched lifestyle had taken its toll on the Frenchman's physique.

"Ah mon dieu!" France cried as he creaked his way down. He dropped his cigarette which smouldered on the mat and threatened to set fire to the foam. England stepped sideways and stamped it out.

He also stamped on the Frenchman's foot.

"Ow! Oh Angleterre! Arthur! Why do you hate me so?"

"You were setting fire to the bloody room, you moron!" England yelled.

"Can we have a bit of quiet at the back? A bit more introspective concentration on our breathing please?" the instructor called.

"Yeah, Arthur and Francis. Concentrate on your breathing!" America said, effortlessly touching his toes, bouncing back up and then back down.

"Mon foot!" France yelped as he hopped up and down.

"Yes well, now your foot is better after your bloody fake plaster was taken off…"

"It was not fake!" France argued. "My foot was broken. He is so cruel…" he explained to the lady behind him.

"It bloody was! I see it's bloody mended fast. What a bloody hypochondriac!"

"You take zat back! I am not like Austria!"

"No. At least he has a proper job!" England argued back as he tried to reach his toes. He glanced across at America whose hands were flat on the mat.

"This is dead easy, men!" America said.

"I am exhausted!" France exclaimed.

"And now if you lie down on your stomach, we'll start with the plank," the instructor told them, ignoring France, who was wheezing like an old man.

"You're a bloody plank," England muttered at France.

But the woman in front thought he was talking to her and turned and glared.

"Erm not you of course… I mean er… I'm so sorry. I meant my friend here," England said quickly. "What do you think of the weather today? Cold eh?" he added to cover his embarassment.

"Nobody cares about your strange English weather." France whispered. The Frenchman was on all fours and appeared to be having some difficulty.

"This is so easy!" America said from his stance - both legs up in the air.

"That's a handstand!" England said, utterly appalled. "I'm going to tell the instructor."

"I need a rest, ah oui," France said, collapsing on the mat face down. "You can touch mon derriere if you like, mon ami, while I am indisposed."

England shuddered.

"Hold the position for sixty seconds…" the instructor told them.

France, still face down on the mat, moaned.

England sucked in his gut, "I really need a custard cream," he said.

America grinned happily and ate a kitkat with one hand, his whole body balancing on the other hand.

"I hate the boy," England said to himself - meaning America.

There was a tapping on the window a few feet away, causing everyone to fall over.

England looked across, half thankful and half dreading what he would see.

It was Russia. His big face was pressed against the glass and he was miming something.

The whole room seemed to go cold.

"What's fat Russkie want?" America asked.

England shrugged.

"You should know, mon ami. He has moved in with you," France said from his prone position on the mat.

"With ' _us_ ', not _me_ , he's moved in with ' _us_ '. I don't see _you_ two moving anywhere at the moment!"

* * *

It was true. They had arrived home yesterday - England's home that is - after a truly momentous day. France was still a little 'triste'* at failing his driving test and America was 'pumped' as usual.

*Sad

England had not been 'triste' or 'pumped'. He was actually a little angry. Angry at having his position as personification of the United Kingdom taken away from him and given to his moronic inebriated brother (aided and abetted England suspected, by the equally nutty King Malcolm). He was angry at the insinuations that he was incompetent or that he was 'obsessive'. Obsessive! Him! That damned idiot Austrian had written a load of tosh about him and he had no recourse.

But there was even worse news.

Sat in the living room, in the dark, with the television on and flickering in the corner, sat Russia, his large Army booted feet up on the best pouffe.

England had almost fallen over in shock.

"Privet!" Russia had called, waving at them. He had two kittens on his lap. "Rurik and Oleg are happy to see you as well!" he said and lifted the kittens' two front paws and waved them.

"They're not called that!" America had yelled.

"Da they are," Russia had replied. "They are named after the first two princes of Novgorod."

"Don't antagonise him," England had whispered to America when he saw America about to argue or possibly ask who or what 'Novgorod' was.

And so they found that Russia had moved his 'fat arse' (as America called it - quietly) into the house and had taken to eating all the bourbon creams, hogging the bathroom (he loved very long bubble baths that lasted anything up to three hours) and was obsessed with Coronation Street. All of these things had made life more difficult than it should have.

* * *

England sighed and wandered over to the window. "What?" he asked.

Russia frowned and put a hand to his ear, indicating that he couldn't hear England.

"WHAT?" England yelled.

Russia shrugged.

America jogged over to him and yelled, his voice going supersonic, "WHAT?"

Russia frowned and disappeared.

England gave America a dead arm. "What did you do that for? You've just deafened everyone within a ten mile radius!"

America shrugged, jogged back to his mat and continued his Pilates.

England followed him and began a 'reverse curl'. This is probably where the problems started.

"You need rock solid abs like mine!" America told him.

England groaned. He was stuck. His abs, not rock solid, but full of toast and baked beans from his breakfast, ached.

"Can someone help me?" he said, groaning. His left leg was cramping and he couldn't move.

"I will!" said a Russian voice above him.

"Aaaargh!"

* * *

After a disposable cup of weak and disappointing tea from a vending machine in the sports centre lobby, England had almost recovered. Thankfully, America's threats of calling an ambulance and Russia dragging England round the room had made England jump to his feet.

"What did you want?" England finally managed to say to Russia.

"What were you doing?" Russia asked them, ignoring the question.

France was slumped on a chair, smoking a cigarette and peering at his phone, "Eet was terrible, young Russie," he replied.

"Pilates!" America said.

Russia frowned. "It looked very weird. Is it an English custom?"

"It's like karate," America said (he pronounced it 'karatay') and karate-chopped his way round the room.

"Except it's not," England said in between gulps of tea. "Anyway, what did you want?"

Russia watched America bouncing around the room. "I found the airbed uncomfortable last night, England."

"Is that it?"

"Nyet. I tried to let it down but it wouldn't go. So I punctured it with my army knife."

"What?!"

"And then I found that somebody had used up all the bubble bath!"

"Zat was me!" France said, looking up from his phone.

Russia looked shocked.

"Why don't you go back to Moscow?" England ventured.

"You asked me to come over," Russia told him. "And I have business in the city," he added, cryptically.

"I did? You do? Oh yes…" England remembered his 'cunning and devious plan' that involved Russia moving in and France, America, Denmark and Prussia moving out. Part of the plan had worked - Prussia and Denmark had indeed high-tailed it out of the house. America and France were more stubborn. In fact, America had taken it upon himself to actually think that he was England's 'bodyguard' and protect him from Russia.

England now realised that he would have to come up with another cunning and devious plan to get Russia out of the house.

"And I've found that I am now up to 1987 in your Coronation Street box-sets." Russia continued.

"Really?"

"Da."

"All the way back to 1975?"

"Da."

"All the way back to Hilda Ogden?"

"Da. She is a wonderful woman. Nyet, I mean she _was_ a wonderful woman. The Motherland would have been honoured to have such a woman."

England stared at him.

"You must have stayed up all night?" England was disturbed that Russia had grown this obsession with England's favourite soap opera. He at first had found it quaint. A hobby he could share with a fellow Nation. America and France had thought it 'weird'.

But sharing a hobby with Russia was not good.

"Your next door neighbours, Mr and Mrs King George complained about the state of your bins," Russia told him.

"My bins?" England assumed Russia meant George IV who was now enjoying his death living with his neighbour next door.

"Da, they said that they are overflowing again with beer cans," Russia said gravely. "They said that you are bringing the neighbourhood down and that their house price has fallen through the floor. I have no idea what that means. But Mrs King George had made a nice fruit cake."

England looked up. "Did you eat the fruitcake?" he asked.

"Da. It was nice."

"He's a fruitcake," America whispered to England. America's 'whispers' though were other people's shouts.

Whilst they were sitting there, Mr Kumajiro and Mr Panda walked back through, still in their badminton gear, carrying racquets chatting quietly.

None of the Nations noticed.

"Oh yes and Austria…" Russia began.

"What about him?"

"I don't like him," Russia said and then remembered what he was going to say, "He knocked on your door. I answered it and he pushed one of your Kings in. That young depressed man. I think he was called Henry."

"Oh no! Why is he back?" England looked horrified. "I thought I'd got rid of him."

"Austria also told me to tell you that he'd never had so many people going to him for therapy and it was all because of you and France."

England looked over at France, who shrugged.

America was backflipping around the room like a 'lunatic' (England's words) and totally oblivious.

"Da," Russia seemed pleased that he was reduced to the role of England's secretary. "And then your Prime Minister boss person rang."

"Oh my God!" England exclaimed. Not at the idea of his boss ringing but of Russia conversing with her.

"Yes. She is a woman!" Russia seemed amazed at this.

England nodded.

Russia nodded as well.

"Well?"

"Oh da. She said that you should continue the therapy with Austria. She called him Professor von Edelstein. I thought this was funny. I told her that was funny. She did not laugh. She sounded very harassed."

"So she should be. She's got my idiot brother now as the United Kingdom!"

"Da. She said something about shortbread and then said you weren't allowed back until you were completely calm."

"I am bloody calm!" England yelled.

Russia stared at him.

"How did you get here anyway?" England said finally after some deep breaths.

"I drove my hire car. I left King Henry person in it. He is listening to Radio 4."

England thought about this, but before he could say anything, France said something he had been praying for.

"I have to go home to Paris, mon cher. You must give me a lift to ze airport!"

"Oh joy!" England said and almost jumped up and down with happiness.

"It will only be for a while. I have to go and see my new boss," France continued. "I know zat you will miss me."

"You have a new boss?" America looked at him. "What's gone on?"

"An election."

"Are you going to stay with dude Artie as well for the next four years?"

"No, he's bloody not!" England interjected.

"I have to stay until I can pay off my debt. But I have to go and see ze new Presidente and kiss zem!"

"Bleurgh!" America looked green.

"Eet eez okay!" France's eyes shone.

"You mean that scary blond woman won?" America asked.

"Non! Eet was ze lovely Macron!" France smiled.

England shook his head.

"What's a Macron?" America asked England.

"Who knows?" England admitted.

"I will take you to the airport," Russia said to France.

"You are very kind, mon cher," France replied.

"Why don't you go to Paris with him, Russia?" England asked.

"I could not possibly do that! I have a business meeting later in the City!" Russia replied.

"Bugger…Can you give me a lift to somewhere then?" England asked.

"Da!"

"But dude, you came with me in my CIA special ops badass car, man!" America yelled.

"That's precisely why I want Russia to give me a lift."

"Da!"

* * *

England regretted his decision as Russia dropped him off at the Trafalgar Gardens Allotment Gardens.

Russia drove like a demon. A drunk demon. A drunk demon who was blind and had never driven before.

England had thought France was a diabolical driver but Russia had smashed those perceptions right away.

France sat in the back filing his nails and checking his phone.

"Don't you need your luggage?" England asked him as they drove down a one-way street the wrong way. He clung to the door handle for dear life.

"Non. I do not need my clothes," France said.

England shuddered.

"I will be back by tomorrow," France added as they skidded around a corner, narrowly missing an old lady on a mobility scooter.

Russia spun the wheel, missed a lamp-post and threw the car down the dual carriageway.

It wouldn't be so bad if Russia's hire car hadn't been a tiny Citroen. England felt every single bump in the road and he was uncomfortably close to Russia.

King Henry VI was crying silently in the back.

"Thank God I survived that and perhaps he might actually go and not come back?" England said to himself as he trudged up towards his allotment. "I really should have changed into my wellington boots, but I don't intend to do any gardening anyway. Just a nice cup of tea and a listen to my radio…" he ruminated to himself.

"How are you going to make a cup of tea, Arthur?" came the voice next to him.

England had forgotten King Henry was still with him.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" he exclaimed. "I've got a bloody shed of course!" he all but shrieked.

"Oh…" King Henry picked up the edges of his cloak so that it didn't trail in the mud. "That one there with the flowery curtains?"

"What?"

King Henry pointed.

Arthur stared, "My shed doesn't have flowery curtains! Oh my God!" he ran up, tripped over a spade and then flung open the shed door.

There, within a scene of cozy domesticity, was Prussia and Denmark.

They had, with their inimitable talent, managed to make the garden shed into a veritable home. There was a carpet (England squinted and was sure it was from his spare bedroom), a very old sofa that sunk heavily in the middle, a tin bath (currently occupied) and a cooking stove.

"What in the name of Winston Churchill is all this?"

"It's good innit?" Prussia looked very happy. He was wearing an apron with a woman's anatomy on the front in a polka dot bikini. Evidently, this was supposed to be humorous.

England did not find this funny.

"He wears odd garments," King Henry VI whispered to England, his eyes wide.

"Who's this joker?" Prussia shouted.

"Why are you bloody living here?" England asked, rubbing his temples. He could feel a migraine coming on.

"Well we couldn't live with you any more. Not with fat Russkie." Denmark replied. He was currently sponging himself down in the tin bath. He suddenly stood up and England felt the need to step back.

King Henry almost fainted.

Prussia threw him a very small tea towel with which to dry himself.

England really hoped it wasn't one of his.

"Where did you get this stuff?" England said, turning round so he didn't have to watch the Dane dry himself.

"Some guy down at the tip borrowed it to us!" Denmark said, rubbing a part of his anatomy rather too vigorously.

"You mean some guy down at the tip lent it to you?" England said through gritted teeth. No matter what, he would not have bad grammar.

"That as well."

"The tip? You mean the Council rubbish dump?"

"Yes probably." Prussia said, switching on the kettle.

"What about the carpet? That looks like mine!"

"That's a funny story that is. It looks like yours because it might be." Denmark said.

"That's not a funny story," King Henry pointed out.

"Who's he anyway?" Prussia asked.

"Never mind that! What about the tin bath? And besides you can't live here!" England was now trying very hard not to shout.

"Who says?" Prussia asked, his hands on his hips.

"Me! It's my shed!"

"We're going to stay here cos we're self sufficient. We have all the veg we need and…"

"My veg!" England yelled.

"Yes but we're putting it to use. We're staying here and riding out the storm. When the nuclear radiation has cleared and everywhere's been levelled, we'll be the only ones left standing, right Den?" Prussia said, waving a turnip at England.

Denmark nodded.

"What in God's name are you talking about?"

"When the war is over and all the mutant cannibals have eaten each other and all the other Nations have given up and retired, we'll be here to take over!" Prussia explained. "Now do you want a mug of tea or not?"

"What war?" England stared at him.

"Haven't you heard?" Denmark asked him, now stepping into his pants and pulling on his Viking helmet.

England shook his head, wordlessly taking a 'I heart Berlin' mug of tea (which showed how stunned he was).

"Your brother Scotland just declared war on Spain!" Denmark said.

England dropped his mug as his phone began practically shrieking in his pocket. He took it out, his mouth still in a big 'o'. There were six missed calls and four voicemail messages. He'd had no signal since he'd left the Sports Centre.

 **Author's Note:**

 **As you may (or may not) notice I usually (if I can) use song titles as Chapter titles but if anyone has any they want me to work into the story please PM me!**


	38. Waiting for the End of the World

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Katie, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 38 - Waiting for the End of the World**

England found himself sat on a sofa in Buckingham Palace ruminating on how his life had unravelled. He sat between the two world's superpowers.

America on one side was still dressed in his US Air Force uniform. He was still wearing his goggles and seemed to be playing some kind of game on his phone. On the other side was Russia who was also playing a game. It looked like a series of falling blocks on the screen.

"What's that?" England asked, purely out of boredom.

"Pokemon," America replied.

"Not you, I was talking to Russia."

"It's an iphone. China gave it to me."

"No, I mean the game."

"Oh. It is tetris. I am the number one champion at it," Russia replied.

America snorted, "Yeah right. You wish."

"I am.

"I doubt that."

"You want to fight me over it?"

America stood up and took a Karate (or 'karat-ay') pose.

Russia stared at him, "What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna wup yo ass!" America drawled.

"Wut?"

"Much as it would be interesting to see the world come to an end over an argument over who is better at Tetris, I have to break this up," England said, stepping between them.

"Yeah where's your dude boss?" America asked. "She asked us here."

"She asked me here," England reminded him. "Not you."

"She's not a dude. She's a real human woman!" Russia said, his eyes shining.

England hoped very much that Russia wasn't getting a crush on his boss.

One would have expected that a car would have been sent to pick up England speed him to the Palace as one of high importance.

That did not happen.

He'd had to catch the number 9 bus and then the number 11. He'd wisely waived Prussia's offer to give him a 'backy' on their shared bicycle. He did not think this would give the right impression - arriving at the Palace perched on the handlebars of Prussia's bike.

"What happened again? Nobody will tell me anything?" he asked.

"Well mad Uncle Hamish ran out of whisky and then got all arsy with someone and was throwing his weight around. Someone told him that you of all people were a better Nation than him. It might have been Portugal, but I don't know, dude… but Uncle Hamish thought it was dude Tony so he got in touch with dude Tony but couldn't and got that little kid Gibraltar. Anyway…"

"What? You mean Portugal stuck up for me?" England's eyes glistened.

"Hey I don't know, man! He always seemed flakey. Anyway… Gibraltar said he wasn't going to leave you, or he might have said EU, but I don't know what that means. Then King Malcolm got on the phone and…"

"When was all this?"

"Let me finish, man! Anyway then my new boss got on the phone and thought they were all Mexicans threatening you and told them he was going to build a huge ass wall. But then King Malcolm said he was taking over and that he would send a Tartan Army over and then my boss hung up. But then King Malcolm declared war on little dude Gibraltar and little dude Gibraltar said to bring it on!"

England stared at him, "None of that even made sense! Have you just got all that from the gossip grapevine?"

"Might have," America said sulkily.

"Don't tell me. Hungary told Ukraine who told Poland who told Spain that Scotland and Malcolm were being arsey?"

America shrugged.

"Da. They are very silly," Russia nodded.

England shook his head, "Anyway, why am I stuck out here? I could be sorting things out. Who knows what's happening in there?" he pointed at the large double doors in front of them.

Russia nodded, "You are right, England. We should go and look."

"Yes! We will!" England said standing up decisively.

Russia headed for the doors, "Come on England! Let us sort this out and be heroes!"

"Are you with us, Alfred?" England asked, turning to America.

America shrugged, "Nah. I've got places to go and people to see!" he said and stood up.

"What?"

"I got a job, dude!" America shouted and hurried off.

England stared after him. He was so shocked from this earth-shattering revelation that he didn't respond when Russia grabbed him and flung him into the room.

He expected to find a conference room full of diplomats talking, a few video screens showing a worried looking Spain, a few heads of state, ministers of defence, a few prime ministers, even a president or two on video link trying to calm the situation.

There was a woman vacuuming.

"I don't think this is right," Russia said.

"Really?" England asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Da," Russia answered. Sarcasm not really registering with him.

It had taken them a long time to find the correct room, having interrupted two of the Queen's grandchildren having a tea party (Russia had wanted to stay and England had had to drag him out), interrupted the Duke of Edinburgh having a bath and then walked into a room where a man (England thought he was a Member of Parliament) was drinking heavily and crying. They had backed out quickly.

When England did find the right room, he found the Prime Minister - a woman who had the look of someone on the edge of sanity - telling a distraught-looking Spain by video-link that they would not bomb his country despite what everybody said.

The UK Foreign Minister was chasing Scotland around the room trying to take the whisky bottle from him.

"Ach you big blond loony!" Scotland yelled. "Yer cannae take my Scotch from me!"

"What on earth is going on?" England asked.

"Yer no allowed in 'ere!" King Malcolm told him.

"Says who?" said King Henry.

"Who are you?" King Malcolm asked looking him up and down.

"I'm King Henry VI!" squeaked King Henry VI.

England wished he wouldn't keep forgetting the dead king was still with him.

"I dinnae care," King Malcolm said.

"We are not going to bomb you!" the Prime Minister told a scared looking Spain.

"I hope not because you have nuclear weapons and I don't and it wouldn't be fair!" Spain said.

"This has all been a misunderstanding," someone else piped up.

"Listen, Spain, was it Gibraltar who told you this? Because he can be a little idiot," England said.

"Yer no longer the personification of the United Kingdom so butt out!" Scotland told him.

He was obviously drunk, his breath almost knocked England out.

"No, it was Poland!" Spain said, answering England earlier question. "But yes, Gib is not happy either."

"Bloody gossip grapevine!"

But then the video-link went off and another one came on.

"Who's that?" England asked as he took a seat at the table and began pouring himself a cup of tea.

The Foreign Minister had plonked himself down next to him and was sweating profusely. "How should I know?"

"Erm because you're the Foreign Minister?" England said and then added, "I say! You'd think he'd look a bit smarter, wouldn't you?"

England was right. The French President looked as if he'd been partying hard. His collar was torn, his tie askew (England was glad and slightly amazed he was wearing a tie) and he had lipstick marks on his cheeks.

England took a sip of tea and found it wasn't tea. The teapot had contained Irn Bru. He spat it out.

"That's the final straw!" he yelled, totally not listening to the French President telling the British Prime Minister that he couldn't condone a bombing attack on Spain.

England jumped to his feet. "Who in God's name put Irn Bru in a teapot?"

"It were me!" Scotland said. "What yer goin' to do about it?"

England leapt on him.

But before he could do any serious damage to his older brother, the door was flung open and the Duke of Edinburgh came in, looking very annoyed and wearing just a bathrobe.

The old Duke uttered such a torrent of abuse at them that England was in awe.

The Prime Minister just stared, whilst the French President disappeared from view to be replaced with France himself who looked utterly gleeful.

Scotland stood up and straightened his kilt.

The Duke still had soap suds in his sparse hair. "Some fool wrecked my bathroom!" he yelled.

"It's raining in here!" someone said.

"Don't be bloody stupid…" England said and looked up and saw a huge damp patch on the ceiling and then realisation hit him. "Oh no…"

"Russia?!" King Henry VI said.

"You brought Russia in here?" the Prime Minister went very pale.

The Foreign Minister ducked under the table and looked as if he were going to stay there.

King Malcolm pulled out his Claymore.

"I don't think there's any need for that…" England said.

Suddenly alarm bells were ringing and a host of armed guards charged in.

"I say!" England exclaimed. "Is there any need for any of this?"

But he didn't get to say anything else as they, including the dead medieval Kings, were hustled out and down several flights of stairs into what the security guards called a bunker.

"Is this the one Winston used during the Blitz?" England asked the Duke.

The Duke ignored him. He was still in a bathrobe and looked very annoyed.

"Why did yer no keep an eye on yon Ivan?" Scotland asked England. "Yer a complete imbecile!"

"Why am I in charge of him?" England protested. "We lost him!"

"How can yer lose someone as big as Russia?" Scotland pointed out.

King Malcolm nodded, "I agree with Hamish."

"I don't! You try babysitting him!" King Henry suddenly piped up, for once.

They all stared at him.

"He's a demon…" King Henry whispered and shivered and then went back to his default position - hiding in a corner trembling.

"Riiiiiight…" England said.

"We still have a war to avert," someone said.

England wondered who it was that had uttered something so sensible. He assumed he was the only sane person in the room.

It was Canada.

"I've been in touch with my boss and he's talking with the Spanish Prime Minister. He's offered to mediate," Canada told them.

"Where in the name of Typhoo tea did you come from?"

"I've been here all the time."

"I don't care!" shouted the Duke. "I was trying to take a bloody bath and then this moron's pet moron," here he pointed at England, "Wrecked the plumbing!"

"I'm not responsible for stray Nations!" England protested.

All this was going on whilst the Prime Minister was trying to continue a telephone conversation in the background.

"I don't care about your tomatoes!" she finally said down the phone to Spain.

Everyone turned round.

England's bushy eyebrows went up. "Well…" he said. He knew that was the wrong thing to say to Spain.

The PM suddenly put the phone down and looked at them all, "The Nation of Spain has just declared war on US!"

"You insulted his tomatoes," England said quietly.

"Aye well, let him come and invade us! We'll show him, won't we Malcolm?" Scotland said.

Malcolm nodded.

England shook his head sadly.

"Come on! Let's rally the Highland Regiment!" Scotland said and was about to storm out with King Malcolm when he was distracted by a simple office swivel chair...

Then the tea trolley came in which really lifted England's mood.

"Shouldn't you be going out there and finding Russia?" The Duke of Edinburgh asked.

"Why me?" England said, grabbing a cup of tea and trying to ignore his older brother, now the personification of the UK, going round and round on a swivel chair.

"Because you bloody well brought him!" somebody said.

"Let the special forces teams do their work. That's what they're paid to do," England said and then added, "Are there any bourbon creams?"

The huge treble steel door to the bunker was flung open, almost crushing the guards behind it and some people came in who England would have preferred to really not see again.

"I thought I left you lot in the bloody tea room!" England said, staring at Germany, George I, George II and Queen Elizabeth (the first, not the second).

"Oh Arthur! I'm so pleased to see you again!" Queen Elizabeth I said to him, hugging him. "This lot are useless. Bunch of boring Germans!"

"We have been wandering around the Palace for the past 24 hours!" Germany was appalled.

"What?"

"We got arrested to my great and eternal shame. In the gift shop. King George II tried to steal a keychain."

"It was a nice keychain," King George II said.

"Where's George III?" England asked.

Germany shook his head, "We lost him somewhere in the vegetable garden. He was talking to a marrow."

"Sad."

"I convinced your Police to drop all charges but then they brought us back here," Germany continued. "I felt I was in charge of these monarchs. After all they are all related to my old kings, but they are a bit of handful."

England smirked but nodded.

"Even more so than Italy," Germany lamented.

England realised that the German looked exhausted.

"Cup of tea?" England asked him.

"Has anybody seen my bear?" Canada asked them.

"Bare what?" came a French voice from the spare video-link in the corner.

England, who had actually been in the same building as Mr Kumajiro but had not noticed him, shrugged. After all who would notice a polar bear in shorts, Nike t-shirt and sweatbands?

Someone got hold of France's video-link screen and placed it face down on the desk. But he continued talking. In French. To himself.

"I think he said he was playing badminton with Mr Panda," Canada continued.

"I think you're losing your mind," Germany said. "All of you," he added, looking around.

"I really hope her Majesty is okay," England said, looking worried and then added, brightening up considerably. "Oh! Are those jammy dodgers?" The day was looking up.

The door was flung open again.

A cold wind blew into the room. The video-screens crackled and went off. The phones cut off and the lights flickered.

"Privyet, comrades!"

"Russia!" England spluttered jammy dodger crumbs all over the Prime Minister.

"Da!" Russia had two small children in his arms and was followed by Her Majesty, who did not look impressed. "There's an emergency! I saved your Queen and these two small children who told me they were a prince and princess. They've eaten all my sweets!" he looked sad about this.

"We were down here because of you!" England told him.

"Me? Why me?" Russia looked astounded.

Nobody answered. Nobody wanted to tell Russia that they thought he was a psychopathic nutter.

"So are you going to war with Spain then?" Russia asked cheerily, putting the two children down. He waved to them.

"It looks as if we are, yes…" England said. For some reason and to everyone's amazement (and Germany's utter disgust) the two children clung to his trousers.

"Can I join in?" Russia said.

"NO!" the Prime Minister yelled and then sat down with her head in her hands.

Russia glared at her.

"On whose side though?" England said, feeding half a biscuit to one of the children. He hadn't dealt with small children since America was small. And then he suddenly realised something…

"Where's America?" one of the civil servants asked suddenly.

"Across the Atlantic Ocean," Russia replied. He picked up a custard cream happily. "You have the best biscuits, England," he added. Bizarrely, the lights, telephones and all the communication devices all suddenly spurted back to life as the big Arctic Nation smiled as he bit into a biscuit.

"No, the Nation? Because the President of the United States told us that if we lost his Nation then he would not be happy."

"Well you can tell him from me that Alfred's got a job!" England said.

Germany almost fell over. "Is this wise? A job? He could cause carnage!"

"I told him to…" England said lamely.

Everyone gasped.

Russia stared at him. "I had a job once. As a bodyguard. I was so good that the person I bodyguarded said that they never needed one again. I don't know why they said this from under their desk."

Queen Elizabeth II and Queen Elizabeth I left the bunker, chatting with the two children between them. The Duke went out, still in his bathrobe and still muttering dark curses at England. The two Georges stayed, still in their massive wigs and looking very out of place (England thought that they wouldn't look in place anywhere really).

The Prime Minister and the Foreign Minister suddenly left the bunker, citing that they needed a stiff drink.

Scotland was drinking whisky and going round and round on a swivel chair, watched in fascination and envy by King Malcolm.

It looked as if he, England, was left in charge. He straightened his tie and poured another tea.

A civil servant suddenly piped up, "Oh my God! I've got multiple calls coming in from the London Metropolitan Police! The whole city is at a standstill. They've had to call in the Army! Everything is gridlocked. It looks as if, from the intelligence I've gathered from Special Branch that some concerted effort has been made to completely halt the City. We think it could be some cyber attack or something!"

"I thought it would be an Armada across the Channel?" Canada said, looking puzzled.

"They don't have one now," Germany told him. "Thanks to _him_ ," he looked at England.

"And so it begins…The Anglo-Spanish War," England said dramatically. He wished he had his Royal Navy uniform on and his eye-patch so he looked like Nelson.

"Well, it's very odd. It's all centred around a pizzeria in South London…" a civil servant said wearing a headset.

The Nations all looked at each other (apart from Scotland who was still whizzing round and round on the swivel chair looking the happiest he'd looked since he'd wrecked Hadrian's Wall).

"Oh no…" Germany whispered.

"Could it be called Vargas Pizzeria?" Russia asked.

 **To be continued...**


	39. London Calling

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: SansSoucis, Katie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 39 - London Calling**

England would never have expected to find himself on the Tube with Germany, three dead kings and Russia.

They were on their way to Vargas Pizzeria. The whole city was gridlocked and it was centered around this particular establishment.

It would obviously have been easier for the police and the army to sort out the 'Vargas Anomaly' as it was now termed, but due to the fact that it was obviously a Nation problem, I.e. that it was the Italy brothers and America who were causing what was now the biggest commotion since the London Blitz, it seemed expedient that England himself sort it out. Also the Prime Minister had told England that if she had found out it was anything to do with him telling America to go and bloody get a job, then she would make sure he never get back his status as Great Britain.

"So this is the tube?" Russia asked. Again.

"Yes, Russia," England replied.

"I've just seen a poster for a play about Richard the Third!" King Henry VI exclaimed.

England shook his head and wondered what to say to that. "Shakespeare," he said as an answer. He prayed that there wasn't an advertisement to Shakespeare's other plays - namely one about Henry himself.

"Horrible man. I can't believe he became King!" Henry moaned.

"Oh shut up!" one of the Georges said, his wig askew. (England wondered if the two Georges had been drinking down in the Buckingham Palace cellars.) "You were a rubbish King."

"I was King of France as well as England!" Henry said.

"Yes but not for long! The French didn't like you. King Louis sorted you out."

"Will you two shut up!" England hissed as members of the public stared at them.

"This is great," Russia said, sitting back, watching and drinking vodka from a bottle he'd had hidden in his giant coat pockets. (His pockets were 'giant', he hadn't stolen a coat from a giant…)

"Is this some kind of performance art?" a drunk old man asked them from down the carriage.

"Erm… it could be?" England replied.

Germany shook his head, "Allow me, Arthur," he said and stood up. "We are indeed rehearsing a play," he told the occupants of the carriage.

Someone shook their copy of the London Evening Standard and said something about 'art students'.

"It's about the fall of a Nation!" Germany continued.

England sat back and crossed his arms.

"I say!" George the First exclaimed.

"…and his gradual descent into madness," Germany continued.

"Oh do bugger off," England said.

"Is there an Angel called Islington?" Russia said suddenly. He was studying a map of London.

"That's classified," England replied.

"Where do you get tickets for this play?" somebody in the carriage asked them as they pulled into a tube station.

"You can't," England said, hopping off quickly onto the platform. He quickly hurried back in and grabbed Russia and King Henry. He kind of hoped that he could leave Germany and the two Georges behind but no such luck.

Russia, now wearing a giant Union Jack hat, shook England's hand off his arm and was about to punch him when he was interrupted by the more appealing idea of punching Germany who had alighted onto the platform with him.

"Why are you wearing that stupid hat?" Germany asked the Russian.

Russia answered by punching him.

"Never mind," Germany said, holding his bleeding nose.

"He stole it from a tourist," George the Second said.

"Right blokes, let's do this!" England said, heading towards the escalator.

There was confusion at this.

"What is this sorcery?" George the First exclaimed.

"Precisely! First we have giant metal horses that run underground and now this!" Henry VI said.

"That was a train! Don't you know anything?" George the Second said.

"Well you didn't know! You've never seen one before either!" George the First said.

"Last time I visited Arthur he took me to the Arena of Wembley to see the Ideal Home Exhibition!" George the Second told his royal father, his eyes misting over. "We traveled on the number 19 bus and I saw a train going past!"

"You really know how to treat royalty, don't you?" Germany said to England.

"You need to tip your head forward when your nose is bleeding," England said, shoving Germany's head down.

"Royalty such as us should have arrived by golden carriage!" George the First said, he then added, "Where's my wig?"

It was true, his wig was gone.

England looked round and saw it sailing off, still trapped in the doors of the train carriage as the tube train pulled away from the platform. "Oh well…" It looked like a very hairy kite.

"Why do you wear a wig? You have hair anyway," Russia asked.

"It is customary for people of good breeding," King George told him.

"You looked like a lady," Russia said.

"Anyway…back to reality…" England said and stepped on the 'up' escalator.

He was not followed as he had hoped.

The two Georges and the Henry all stood at the bottom giving Russia a history of royal wigs.

Germany was still trying to stem the blood loss from his nose.

"I say! Blokes?!" England called.

"How did you get up there?" Russia called.

"Escalator! You have them in your bloody country!" England yelled back.

Russia did not like his country being called a 'bloody country' - even though it was - literally. He bounded up the escalator to punch England and England promptly jumped on the 'down' escalator.

"This is a game for kings!" George the First announced and jumped on the 'down' escalator and tried to go up. He found himself stuck at the bottom. He frowned.

"You are a fool, father," George the Second told him. "You have to run like Arthur." King George II of England then tried to run up the down escalator but found he was getting nowhere.

"No!" England said. "You need to go on the up one!"

"It makes no sense," King Henry said to George the First, who nodded and then shook his head.

Russia ran down the down escalator, barreling past George II and tried to hit England, who then ran up the up escalator.

"See?" England yelled and then yelped when Russia chased after him.

"Ah! That verily makes sense," George the Second said and ever the supposed 'innovator' got on the down escalator. Again. He tried to run up and then lost his wig on one of the steps.

England ran down, tried to shove George the Second out of the way and grab the wig before it jammed the whole mechanism but found his way blocked by the other two dead kings.

"I do not think this is correct," King Henry said.

"Neither do I," George the First said. "I wish I were back in Hanover."

"So do I," England said as the wig became caught in the mechanism at the end and there was a horrid screeching noise.

By now someone who had been observing the stupidity on a CCTV display and assuming, quite rightly, that it was the work of mindless hooligans, had pressed the alarm.

Russia barreled down the up escalator which had now ground to a halt.

"You made it stop!" King Henry said to Russia.

"Da!" Russia seemed amazed at his own aptitude. He had no idea how.

"I think rather it was King George's wig…" England said lamely. Russia growled at him.

"I think the bleeding's stopped!" Germany said. He looked round.

There were security guards coming down towards them, alarms were going off. Three medieval Kings apparently having a crisis on a broken down escalator and England looked as if he were about to make a run for it.

Germany did not blame the English Nation for his attempt at escape but he did blame him for getting him punched and for leaving him with these imbeciles.

"Come on! Quickly!" Germany said and ushered the three Kings up the escalator.

"The metal contraption is not moving I see," George I told Germany.

"Ja ja ja… get on with it!" Germany said.

"You there! Stop!" one of the security men shouted.

Germany pushed the three Kings out into the open air. Behind him he heard the unmistakable voice of Russia growling in answer, "Me? You want to talk to me?"

"Oh dear…" Germany muttered.

But they had no time for that. England was waiting for them on the pavement at the entrance to the underground tube station. "Oh right… there you are!" England said. He looked disappointed.

"Ja. Danke for waiting…" Germany muttered.

"Well I can't afford to be arrested again. I have to get to Pizzeria Vargas. I'm sure all this has something to do with Alfred," England said.

Germany looked around at the absolute chaos surrounding them.

The traffic was nose to tail as far as the eye could see and at a standstill. Busses, cars, taxis. Nobody was moving.

"This is why we caught the bloody train," England told one of the Georges.

King Henry looked around, "Have the French invaded?" he asked tremulously.

"No. It's worse than that," England said in a hushed voice.

Germany arched an eyebrow.

"I believe it's Alfred's new job," England said after a dramatic pause.

There was a few moments' silence.

"You mean he has a job as a traffic warden?" came a voice behind them.

They all screamed.

It was Russia. He was twirling his lead pipe as if it were a baton. He was still wearing a Union Jack hat.

"What happened to those guards?" Germany said after swallowing hard.

"They have been dealt with," Russia said darkly. (In fact they had been left tied up in a cleaner's cupboard with 'wedgies' - a new torture Russia had learned from Prussia.)

Germany gulped.

"Why do you think it's the boy who's behind all this?" George the Second asked England getting back to Englishman's announcement.

"Because… he foolishly texted me ten minutes ago before the whole mobile network was overloaded." England held up his phone to show them.

"Bonjour chérie, je veux dormir avec toi?" Germany read out. "That's a strange text for him to send you, isn't it?"

England blushed bright red.

Russia's mouth dropped open and he also went bright red.

The three kings shuffled, not looking at one another.

"Not that one!" England yelled and tried to find the correct one. "Damn him…"

Germany cocked an eyebrow.

England scrolled through feverishly with Germany looking over his shoulder.

"You are a completely rubbish dad and I've told Swe and Fin that I'm never coming to stay with you ever ever again. PS Can you send me some pocket money? Sealand." Germany read out loud.

Russia shook his head. He seemed to find England's parenting skills deplorable as well.

"Dear Mr Kirkland the South London and Peckham Allotment Recreational Society (SLAPARSE) are hereby informing you that due to your disregard for societal norms and the dire state of your plot, in particular your allowing of the cultivation of cannabis by known criminals, that your tenancy at the above allotment is rescinded. Yours faithfully." Germany read this out.

"How did you do that? Is that an email? How did I get an email?" England was looking at this phone in complete bafflement.

"You just don't care, do you?" Germany said, appalled.

"It's a sad state of affairs when you're thrown off an allotment," one of the Kings pronounced.

Even Russia looked shocked. "I've always underestimated you, England," Russia said in awe.

England looked at them all. "Where's that bloody text? Ah yes… Here we are…" he said finally with much exasperation. "Yo Artie dude, I got myself a job. It's ace. It's wiv the Italy bros. They are hilarious and I get to eat all the pizzas I want! It's easy. All I have to do is answer the phone. I take the order and send out Romano! I mean what can go wrong?"

The three Nations and the three kings looked around at the blocked street, the horns blasting, the helicopters flying overhead.

"This is your fault of course," Germany told England.

* * *

"Gawd this is so frickin' easy!" America said to himself, his feet up on the desk as he ate another pizza - his sixth of the evening. He wondered how the the 'others' were getting on. Obviously they would be missing the hero but you can't be everywhere at once can you?

Behind him, the chef of this esteemed establishment did not think this was 'easy' at all. Feliciano Vargas, one part twelfth owner of the chain of Cafe Vargas pizzerias and pasta restaurants, was laid flat on the floor in his chef's whites quietly sobbing.

The fact that he was sobbing quietly was because he was drunk and America, who Italy was a little afraid of (not because America was threatening but because he was loud) had shouted at him to shut the hell up.

The noise had disturbed America's concentration. This concentration was not in any way used up in the discharge of his duties. No, it was in his eating of the contents of Italy's fridge.

In fact, America would have been upset if he'd realised that his shouting had made the Italian cry, but he was oblivious.

The phone rang again. "Wow, this phone has never stopped ringing!" America said. It was just the fourth phone call in two hours. "Vargas Pizzeria!" America yelled down the phone.

England having finally got through heaved a sigh of relief, "Alfred? Listen…"

"No! This is Vargas Pizzeria. Vargas. Pizzeria." America yelled. He turned to the prone Feliciano in the empty restaurant. "Dude thinks this is some place called Alfred's! Wow." He was oblivious that the Italian was laid on the floor. He was also oblivious that the restaurant was empty and that there was chaos outside.

"No Alfred!"

"No. Vargas!" Alfred said, slowly as if talking to a child.

"No! You damn fool! It's me, Arthur!"

"What pizza d'ya want dude? We got pepperoni… oh wait I ate the last one… margherita… you can order fries but the dude Feli here calls them something else… You'll have to wait 'til our delivery driver gets back from the last order though if you want delivery…"

"I DON'T WANT DELIVERY!" England yelled. "I don't want to order a flaming pizza!"

"Jeez… okay. Chillax, man, why d'ya ring here then?"

The phone went dead.

America held it up. "Odd. It sounded like someone I know. Do you often get crank calls, Feli?"

Feliciano didn't answer. His business was over. Nobody had come in all night. The fact that they couldn't get in because 1) the streets were gridlocked and 2) the door was locked, was neither here nor there.

America shrugged. "I wonder what's taking Romano so long?" he mused to himself and began scoffing a large tray of macaroni cheese.

* * *

Romano was seething. In his beat-up Pizza delivery van with the words 'Vargas Delivers' on the side (a misnomer if ever there was one) he was swearing he would kill the 'fat American' when he returned. The idiot Alfred had been taking orders and sending him on such tortuous routes around the city that Romano had somehow managed to cause the chaos that now afflicted the City. He sat now in his car plotting the American's demise. He had done just two deliveries in four hours. As the idiot American's promise had been that they would deliver within twenty minutes or the meal was free, and so far he had not taken any money.

He looked idly out of the window as he thought about shoving the American into the restaurant's walk-in freezer and shutting the door (ignoring his own natural passive-aggressive cowardice) and saw Prussia and Denmark riding a ridiculously small child's Barbie bicycle with handlebar streamers along the pavement. Denmark's knobbly knees sticking out at right angles as he pedaled furiously, while Prussia sat on the handlebars.

As much as Romano wanted to wind down the window and yell something obscene at him he had to admit that they were not as stupid as they looked. They were the only ones getting anywhere. He sighed and lit another cigarette.

* * *

Elsewhere…

In Buckingham Palace, the Prime Minister (still with her head in her hands) was sat at a table with Scotland who was still whizzing round and round in a swivel chair. King Malcolm sat next to him drinking a good whisky. Facing them were what they thought was the Spanish delegation. It wasn't. It was SLAPARSE - South London and Peckham Allotment Recreational Society who were now charged with averting a possible Anglo-Spanish War.

* * *

Over at England's allotment, Prussia and Denmark, having dashed out on a stolen child's bike to get more beers, were 'quietly' drinking when the Spanish delegation arrived. Gibraltar, knowing that England was as crazy as a frog on speed and getting more eccentric as the years went by, thought nothing about this. He was a little put out that they weren't meeting in the Palace as promised but assumed that they'd been diverted here - by helicopter no less - piloted by Mr Kumajiro with Mr Panda acting as tourist guide, because of the traffic problems.

"Yo! Gib! My main man!" Prussia greeted him from the tin bath as the door was flung open at the knock. "Long time no see. Where's Tony dude?"

Gibraltar wished he'd listened to the wise advice of Portugal…

 **To be continued…**


	40. 19th Nervous Breakdown

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: SansSoucis, Katie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 40 - 19th Nervous Breakdown**

So while the South London and Peckham Allotment and Recreational Society attempted to broker peace between Spain and the UK, and the Spanish Ambassador and Gibraltar (hereforth called 'Gib') were discussing England's eviction from the allotment site with Pru and Den, England himself was oblivious…

England, Germany, Russia and three medieval kings were making slow tortuous progress along a London street.

"I'm still awaiting recompense for my crushed car, England," Germany told England.

"Oh in the name of my Aunt Josephine! Would you give it a bloody rest?" England shouted. "Damn… the signal's gone. I can't ring the idiot boy back."

"Did you have an Aunt Josephine as well?" Russia asked.

England ignored him.

Germany huffed. "Are we anywhere close to this restaurant yet?"

"Yes. No. What road was it again?"

Germany glared at him and looked at the scrappy flyer given to him by the Italy brothers. "Butt End." He said finally after some consideration.

Russia looked shocked. But then again he was still shocked at England being thrown off an allotment. Even Ivan the Terrible had never been thrown off an allotment..

England pointed. "Down here."

They crossed the road between the parked busses and cars and then down a small alley.

"This is dingy. Just as I expected," one of the Kings said.

"I have shares in this restaurant," Russia said.

"So do I!" Germany said.

"I have more than you!" Russia said, squaring up to him.

"This one!" England said finally as they arrived at a door painted with green, white and red stripes and peered through the murky glass. He mouthed at America to open the bloody door.

America shrugged and mimed that they were 'open'.

"No you're not, you bloody idiot!" England yelled.

America jumped off his chair and unlatched the door. "We were locked! I wonder if that's why we've had no customers?"

"I wonder…" England muttered, entering.

Feliciano got shakily to his feet and then hugged Germany. "Luddy! I'm so glad you came to rescue me! Mr America shouted at me! He's eaten all my food and he's sent fratello on lots and lots of deliveries and fratello doesn't know where he's going! This is a terrible city! I want to go back to Roma!"

Germany agreed it was a terrible city.

"You've caused an international incident, you idiot!" England told America, swiping him round the head.

"Aw! You told me to get a job!" America protested and then said, "International incident? Here? Really?"

"No, not really," one of the Kings said and was shushed by England.

"I thought your cafe was in Rome anyway? I visited it on a date with Liechtenstein," England asked Feliciano.

Feliciano nodded. He was still clinging to Germany. "Yes, we have one there and one here. We open one for four weeks and then this for four weeks and swap over…"

"Why?"

"Because when we get customers who complain about the service, we shut up shop for a while and then we move to another cafe and then go back when they've forgotten or we've forgotten and I'm okay again…" Feliciano's eyes filled with tears. "People can so be cruel!"

"That makes no sense…" England said and then turned to America, "You are going home! You've caused all this carry-on!"

"But I only took orders and sent Romano out!" He showed England a map of London and the addresses he'd circled. "It shouldn't have taken him all that time to get there!"

"You bloody fool!" England cuffed him round the head again as he saw the route America had given Romano. "That's right across the city! And… that's not a bloody road, it's a cycle path and that one there is only suitable for cattle!"

"Cattle?"

"Ja…" George the First spoke up. "This is a very very old city, young man."

"Right, time to go home!" England said as if America was a little kid again.

"So we're not having any pasta because I'm hungry?" Russia asked.

England didn't answer. He wasn't 'in charge' of Russia so couldn't very well order him home as well.

"Pastaaaaa!" Feliciano looked so happy that he ran back into the kitchen, his tall white hat bobbing up and down and began boiling more pasta.

"Besides, where are your CIA bodyguards?" England asked America, shoving him out of the door.

"Dunno… I think I lost them when I caught the 'copter with Mr Kumajiro and Panda dude."

"What?"

"I lost them when…"

"No I mean… Mr Kumajiro and Mr Panda have a helicopter?"

"An helicopter, man. You need to sort out your grammar."

"It's 'a' helicopter, Alfred," England said as they stood on the pavement outside the restaurant, surveying the traffic.

"Where?" America looked around, excited.

England batted him again around the head. He was flushed with the idea that there was no CIA man around to punch him. "Nowhere!"

Inside the restaurant, Russia was asking Feliciano exactly what use he has made of the appliances they had bought. Whilst Germany was confusing matters by telling Feliciano that he should not be spending more of his 'good' German money on the failing establishment. Italy promptly burst into tears. Russia blamed Germany for this.

"You are always going around making little Nations cry. I should take over Italy and he can become part of Russia and then he won't cry ever again. In Soviet Union, people don't cry…" Russia told Germany and then went off in search of vodka.

"Hold me, Luddy!" Feliciano cried.

England looked around for some kind of transport. "How come you got a lift in a helicopter?" he asked.

America shrugged. "Mr Kumajiro thought I was Canadia."

England thought that Mr Kumajiro must have taken leave of his senses if he thought America was Canada. He surveyed the helicopters overhead and the wailing sirens. "Oh my God! I bet they're looking for you, you big idiot!"

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"The boy caused all this?" George II asked, looking around.

"Yes," England sighed. His phone bleeped. He had another six missed calls and subsequent voicemail messages. Two from 'Gib', two from the Prime Minister, one from France (along with a photo attached to a text which England dreaded opening) and one from Portugal. The latter one being the only one England had any intention of listening to.

"Portugal is still my ally," England announced, listening with a smile.

"Who's he then?" America asked strolling off down the road.

"He's my oldest friend!" England told him.

"Yeah, but who is he?" America asked. He was stomping off. "I'm not jealous," he called back.

"He probably is," George II confided to England. "My idiot grandson should never have lost him as a colony."

"I agree… that was the start of it. Losing all my colonies…" England felt like a drink. A big one.

* * *

At England's allotment...

"So England's such an idiot. I mean I don't blame you lot for evicting him," Prussia was telling the Spanish delegation, totally oblivious to who they were. He held court from his position in a tin bath full of rose scented bubbles.

Gib frowned. "What?"

"Well," Prussia continued as he got out of the bath, "He's always going round trying to recolonise his colonies." Prussia said. "This allotment of his is just the start."

Denmark handed him a faded 'Frozen' towel. The delegation all averted their eyes.

"Get a load of my five metres of awesomeness!" Prussia yelled and pointed at his private area.

Denmark shook his head, "Have a beer, dude."

"He's oppressing my rights," Gib said. He was starting to wonder if they could possibly be in the wrong place. The Spanish delegation nodded.

The Spanish Ambassador butted in, "Hamish, the Scottish personification said that…"

"Yeah well, he's mad as a Russian in the Sahara as well." Prussia said. He seemed pleased with that image and grinned to himself as he dried himself rigorously.

"…that he was declaring war on us." The Spanish Ambassador finished lamely.

"What for?" Denmark looked appalled.

"I bet it's something to do with his so-called prize turnips," Prussia said. He just knew England was obsessed with his gardening. He had completely forgotten they'd said anything about Scotland.

"Anyway Gib, what you doing with these losers?" Denmark interrupted. He assumed, like Prussia, that 'these losers' were from the allotment society. "SLAPARSE eh?" he added.

Gib and the Spanish Ambassador looked at each other. "I don't know if I want to be British anymore," Gib said sadly. "Not if that's how you treat esteemed representatives."

Prussia shrugged. "Not my fault, mate. If you've planted your potatoes too close to my greens," he said making it sound filthy.

"What?" Gib asked again. He was starting to wonder if he was going mad. "Why are you representing Britain anyway? Where is Arthur?" He asked. "Where's Scotland?"

"Hamish is probably at work doing his drag queen act now," Denmark said, looking at his watch (which was a Mickey Mouse affair).

Gib and the Spaniards looked at each other.

"Arthur's probably drunk somewhere," Prussia said. "And talking of drunk why aren't we?" he asked Denmark.

Denmark nodded.

They opened some beers. Gib took one without questioning. He was sure there was something very odd going on.

* * *

At Buckingham Palace...

"I think this is most peculiar," one of the delegation from SLAPARSE* said. (*South London and Peckham Allotment and Recreational Society).

"Your English is very good," Hamish said and then hiccuped.

King Malcolm nodded.

The Prime Minister and the Foreign Minister looked confused.

"Of course it is," said one of the SLAPARSE representatives. "Can we get down to business? Obviously Mr Kirkland isn't here because we assume you're his legal representatives?"

"Aye yer right there!" Hamish burped.

"Well, we hereby evict him!" said another SLAPARSE representative, an elderly man in a tweed waistcoat with grey hair. He'd obviously been waiting years to do this. He slapped a piece of paper on the desk.

"You mean this is an invasion?" the Prime Minister looked shocked.

"Mr Kirkland was the one who squashed my prize marrows last year!" said a lady with a startling perm.

"Is that code for something?" asked the Foreign Minister and then hurried out to get an MI5 Intelligence officer.

"Can we speak to Antonio Carreido?" the Prime Minister asked, using Spain's human name just in case these people weren't au fait with the Nations.

"Who?" one of them asked.

"Is he the new Chair of the General London Allotments Groups?" another asked.

"What?" Scotland looked at King Malcolm who shrugged.

"You know - 'GLAG'?"

Hamish, taking another glug of whisky, seemed to think they were insulting him, put down his bottle and launched himself across the table at them.

King Malcolm joined him and soon there was a tangle of limbs.

"Stop stop!" the Prime Minister yelled.

The video-link came back into life and Spain appeared, he saw the fight, was utterly shocked at the way his (he thought) ambassador and staff were being treated and announced that he would 'take immediate action'. (which probably meant something might happen next week…)

* * *

"I miss my conolies," England slurred.

"Jeez you've only had two beers!" America said, seated next to him in the 'Giddy Sailor' pub.

"I know…"

Henry VI sat with them, along with the two Georges who they couldn't seem to shake off.

They'd wandered in the 'Giddy Sailor' pub as they couldn't seem to get anywhere. The traffic was still bad, although better now that America was no longer answering the phone and sending Romano on ridiculous delivery routes. America wondered briefly if Romano had made it back. But like a firefly his thoughts were transient and he was no longer really bothered. He wandered off instead to play a game of pool with George II who claimed he was 'brilliant' at 'billiards' whatever that was.

England sat at the bar drinking, bemoaning to two dead kings about the state of his life, the amount of food America was eating and the cost to his household. He then went on to the loss of Gibraltar, America, India etc. George I was appalled and got rapidly very drunk. The opening bars of 'If you leave me now' played on the jukebox. England felt like inserting America's head in it.

"Hey! My bro Canadia says that they're looking for me!" America yelled across to England.

"Yesh well your CIA…" (England pronounced this 'she-i-ay') "…doods will be worried."

America shrugged, totally oblivious to the chaos he was causing in the streets of London.

"Ah hell…" England pulled out his phone as it rang the opening bars of Coronation Street. He didn't want to answer it. Gibraltar again. He clicked 'ignore'. "Not my problem. I'm not the Nation anymore. Itsh Scotland." He laid his head on the bar in a puddle of beer. "I'm going to stay here." He closed his eyes and just hoped that perhaps he might have a bit of peace. Next to him, George I ordered another another pint of beer and then fell off his stool.

Henry VI had wandered off to look at a poster stuck on the pub door. He had an idea how he could help his Nation, he thought. A way to bring in some money.

"I'm going to apply for a job!" he told England.

England was too drunk to notice and as there were no other customers in the establishment, and America and George II were now arguing over the rules of the billiards/pool game, nobody noticed when King Henry disappeared.

The sudden screeching bars of 'The Star-Spangled Banner' jangled through England's ears. He sat up, the hair on one side of his head sticky with beer on end. "Whatsh?" he slurred.

"My Prez!" America sighed and answered his phone. "Yo!" he yelled and then listened. "Dude I have to stay here, man! Arthur needs me. He's getting old and going a bit senile so I'm kinda his carer." America yelled down the phone. The idea of America being England's carer was absurd. Thankfully, England had staggered to the gents toilets and so did not hear this. "I can't stay on the phone cos I'm going into a tunnel!" America continued and quickly switched it off and nodded happily at George II. "Your play," he said.

"You lied!" George II said. "George Washington would be appalled."

"Yeah yeah yeah…" America said and checked his phone again. "Dude Prez says he's playing glof. What's glof?" he asked.

"I have no idea about these modern games…"

America clapped the dead King on the back, and went right through him, almost landing on the floor. He then launched into a garbled of England's Hanoverian Kings, "You're alright, but your dad's a bit crackers and your son, I mean is it grandson? To be honest I'm glad he went off to talk to those marrows in the Palace gardens. He was giving me the creeps when he talked about being a tree and painting his bum blue."

King George II had no idea what to say to that.

"But at least I got my independence. I still don't like to mention it to Artie. He gets upset…" America confided and then flicked open his phone. "Oh it's the Prez again. He says he will sort out dude Spain and Artie's war when he's finished playing a round of glof." He turned to King George. "I wonder what glof is?" he asked again.

"Oh, absolute dick!" England exclaimed as he emerged from the gents toilets. His phone had gone off again and as he absent-mindedly checked it, he immediately wished he hadn't. It was one of those moments when England wished he didn't have Spacetime or whatever it was called installed on his phone. It was a video call. It was Francis. Francis covered in lipstick, draped in a French flag, wearing bunny ears and carrying pink balloons.

Bizarrely at that moment, the jukebox suddenly began playing 'Michelle Ma Belle' and France clearly heard this as he grinned happily, "Ah! Our song, mon cher! Can you please pick me up from ze Airport?" he called.

England's heart dropped. "Oh bloody hell…" he said.

"Zank you mon cher! Oh and by ze way your flies are undone!" Francis purred and then hung up.

"Damn and bloody blast him to the third ring of hell!" England stormed.

"I've been there!" came a voice. It was Russia, wearing his gigantic Union Jack hat and chewing a breadstick. He had sauntered into the pub unseen and unheard, like a large ninja...

"If he thinks I'm going to just drop everything and go pick him up from the bloody airport then he can go and…" England shouted and vacantly picked up a bag of pork scratchings and began eating.

"I think we should go rescue him!" America announced.

"We can't go anywhere!" England said. "There's still a massive traffic jam! Ha!" he seemed pleased and ordered another pint from the confused-looking barman and opened a packet of cheese and onion crisps. He was clearly in for the long haul.

"But we need to go get weirdy Frogface!" America said. "All for one and one for all!"

"How can we? We don't have a bloody vehicle, you daft Yank!" England said.

"Actually we do!" Russia said.

England put his head in his hands, "Please don't let it be Romano… please don't let it be Romano…" he chanted to himself. He remembered all too well being stuck in the Italian's car once being given a two minute lift to a conference in Rome and being thankful he was still alive at the end of it.

On the jukebox Frank Sinatra began to sing 'Come Fly with Me'.

"An helicopter?" America asked, bouncing up and down excitedly.

"It's a helicopter!" England yelled at him.

"No. But it does fly," Russia said. "Actually, I should say 'he'." He then pointed outside the pub.

England had a bad feeling about this. America, ever the optimist and ultra-confident in himself, did not.

They stepped outside. (England slammed the jukebox on the way out and it skipped to 'Blue Monday'. "I hate that thing," he bemoaned.)

A 20 foot long green dragon looked at them. 'Mr Ping' took over the whole pavement. Confused humans who could not see him, were bumping into what they probably thought was some kind of force field.

"Oh God…" England groaned and felt like throwing up before he'd even got on.

"Coolio!" America shouted.

 **To be continued…**

 **Will the 'Anglo-Spanish war' be averted?**

 **Will Pru and Den be left to grow their potatoes in peace?**

 **Will France be all partied out?**

 **Will King Henry get a job?**

 **Will England get revenge on the jukebox?**

 **All this and less in the next episode…**


	41. My Kingdom for a Dragon

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 41: My Kingdom for a Dragon**

"It's just like Harry Potter!" America yelled at England.

The 'boy' looked wildly excited, his eyes shining. From what England could see of his eyes that is. The American had dug out his flying goggles and was now shouting something about being in the US Air Force.

They were seated on 'Mr Ping'. Russia in front 'driving' (and still wearing a ridiculously large Union Jack hat), England in the middle, and America behind him (so England had to turn his head to look at him which elicited some motion sickness). Thankfully, the two King Georges had refused to climb aboard and were last seen entering - bizarrely - a 'King George' public house.

America had wanted to 'drive', but as Russia told them that Mr China had once taught him how to 'drive a dragon', and that no western Nation could possibly do this, and also because he was the biggest, it was Russia who was steering.

Mr Ping had launched over the London streets and England, finding himself in the air again for the third time, felt distinctly ill.

It was not made any better by America excitedly pointing out the landmarks beneath them, "Look Artie! It's Westminster Abbey thingy, and there's Trafalgar Square and there's London Eye! Can we go on the London Eye? And there's Scotland Yard and its spinning cube! Why does Scotland have a yard? Has he always had a yard? Doesn't he have a garden as well? You have a garden. Why doesn't it say England Yard?"

England did not answer. He couldn't. He felt too sick.

By the time they landed at Heathrow Airport just in front of the taxi rank, England was green. He fell off the dragon and staggered into the airport, throwing up in a wastebin.

Russia patted Mr Ping and gave him a vodka-soaked fortune cookie. What wisdom was involved in giving a 20 foot long fire-breathing dragon alcohol should perhaps be taken up with Russia himself.

America also patted Mr Ping who flapped a lazy wing at him and then flew off.

"That was so freakin' awesome, man!" America yelled and patted Russia on the shoulder.

Russia stared at him, "Don't touch me," he growled.

America bounced into the airport totally oblivious. "Hey where'd Artie go?" he asked Russia.

Russia shrugged. "Oh look there's a Sock Shop!" he said. "I need some new ones!"

England was in the gents toilets, stepping around a man trying to change a child's nappy (England winced at the metrosexuality of the modern man, forgetting he himself had changed quite a few nappies), a yelling toddler blocked his approach to the sinks and two football fans on their way to some game compared tattoos blocked the cubicles.

"Excuse me… I just need to…"

"Artie!" came a yell.

England realised he had no privacy at all. He straightened his tie and splashed water in his face. It had been a long, exhausting day. And now they were supposed to be collecting France.

"It's crazy out there!" America yelled as he strolled in. The boy seemed to have a radar for figuring out where England was. "Is this the ladies?" he asked.

"No! Why?"

America shrugged and went back out before the two Arsenal Football Club supporters could hit him.

England apologised to them and followed the American.

"Right… I can't see Francis anywhere… Let's go!" England decided after two seconds.

The airport concourse was indeed 'crazy' and thronged with tourists, air travellers and weary looking business commuters.

"There he is!" America pointed and he was right.

England couldn't understand why he hadn't seen France despite the throng of people. The Frenchman, as usual, stuck out like a sore thumb.

Francis looked like a gone to seed rock star. He was wearing very tight pink leather trousers (that had alarmed the old age pensioners seated next to him on the plane), a French flag was draped around his shoulders and he was wearing pink bunny ears and trailing red, white and blue balloons. He was the most conspicuous person there - even considering the security men in high-vis vests, the group of football fans singing, and the unfortunate person dressed in the giant Costa Coffee cup outfit advertising said beverage.

"Francis!" America yelled.

England pulled him away and hissed, "Come on! Before he sees us!"

Too late.

"Yoohoo sweeties!" France called and sashayed over, dragging a leopard-print suitcase with two very squeaky wheels.

"Oh God…" England muttered.

"I know you missed me! So what's been happening?" France asked, hugging them both and planting big sticky kisses on England and America's cheeks.

America blushed bright red, as did England.

"I had a job!" America told France.

"Oh aren't you growing up?!" France squealed as if the American was 12 years old.

"I know!"

"He caused absolute frigging chaos!" England interjected, wiping lipstick off his cheeks. Why did France have to be so loud, camp and why was he wearing bright pink lipstick?

"Ah but he is so cute!" France said, tweaking America's cheek.

"He's a bloody idiot!"

"And you! Declaring war on Brother Espana!" France said turning to England.

"No I didn't!" England responded.

They strolled towards the exit, momentarily forgetting Russia.

"He is very upset avec vous. Especially when you sent young Gilbert and Den to liaise avec ze Spanish Ambassador!" France made the word 'liaise' sound utterly filthy.

"I did what?"

"You sent zem to your allotment, mon ami!"

"No I did not!"

"Monsieur Espana said zat zere was a huge fight in ze Palace between Scotland, King Malcolm and some people who he thought were his Spanish embassy staff but zay were not! Zay were ze allotment people!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," England said.

"I zink zat you do. And so does Antonio. He believes zat you want zis war and zat you deliberately sent his Ambassador and Gibraltar to Den and Gilbert to insult him."

"That's preposterous!"

"Gilbert's nakedness was apparently enough to make zem call off all discussions and when Espana saw how his delegation was attacked by Hamish and King Malcolm…"

"But you just said they weren't his delegation!"

"Ah oui, but zat does not matter, he thought zat zay were!"

"None of this makes any bloody sense!"

"Non it does not," France looked pleased about this and lit a French cigarillo underneath a 'No Smoking' sign.

"That says no smoking, Francy-pants," America pointed at the sign.

"I know zis, it does not apply to me," France said moodily and blew smoke in America's face.

"Taxi!" England called as they exited the airport quickly. A pair of security guards were watching them.

"So you've just caused World War Three, dude," America said to England. He looked impressed.

"I did not!" England said. He was suddenly very sober. But he needed a cup of tea. "What time is it anyway?"

"About 1771 looking at the state of this city," America said looking up and down the street, there were no taxis free. "Man! How do you lot live like this? It's crazy. You might as well go back to horse and cart."

"You bloody caused this, you great idiot!" England said, swiping him around the head.

"Leave ze boy alone," France said, leaning against a wall. He was taking a call and talking very loudly to someone from some establishment called 'Buns and Butts'. England doubted it was anything to do with baking.

"Artie, what's a mile high club? Is it something to do with mountaineering?" America asked innocently.

England nodded and pulled America away from France quickly.

"I wonder where Russia is?" England asked.

"Yeah we're going to need him to drive Mr Ping," America said.

"You there!" shouted the security men in high-vis jackets. They were talking into walkie-talkies and clearly wanted to parlez with the Nations.

"Time to move ass!" America said and pulled England along the pavement. France lazily followed them.

"Mind mon balloons!" France shouted in protest as America burst one of them.

They ran around a corner, panting and America peered round to see if their pursuers were following.

"I think we lost 'em, dudes," America said.

"What on earth is going on? We've done nothing wrong…" England said and then added, looking dubiously at France, "Well, apart from him…"

"Moi? I have done nothing mon cher."

They all looked at each other.

"Russia!" England exclaimed.

"Oh mon dieu! Poor leetle Russie!" France said.

England and America stared at him.

* * *

'Poor leetle Russie' was actually in Sock Shop, sat on a comfy soft cube chair (which in itself amazed him), his huge Red Army boots lying on the floor and trying socks on his massive size 15 feet.

He was becoming more and more annoyed that none of the 'Minions' or 'Union Jack' socks would fit him.

He threw the offending garments at the terrified shop assistant, a nervous-looking young man who had been trying to supplement his meager student loan.

"These are not big enough! Does everyone in Britain have tiny tiddly feet?" Russia bellowed.

"Erm… I don't know…" the boy said. "You're not really supposed to try the socks on," the boy said nervously.

Russia looked amazed. "But how can I tell if they fit?"

"The sizes are on the packet, Sir," the assistant said. He pointed. His hands were shaking.

Russia frowned and read slowly, "Size 42-46…"

"Erm yes or 8-11, Sir."

"Is that age group? Because if it is then I'm way out!" Russia exclaimed and began searching again through the racks.

The assistant noticed that Russia's current socks had more holes than sock… "Well no. It's shoe size."

"My Baltics used to darn my socks for me," Russia told the young man who was trembling hard.

"R..r…really?" the assistant stuttered. He had no idea what the big foreign man meant. He was backing away towards the counter and the big red alarm button.

Russia nodded. He was used to people shaking and stammering around him. It was very odd. "My sestra taught me to knit. But I don't usually knit socks," he told the boy who was pressing the alarm button in a panic, "I've run out of wool," he added sadly, his purple aura pulsating.

* * *

"We should go and rescue fat Russkie dude! It's all for one and one for all!" America told France and England.

France was clearly drunk as he said, "Oui mon cher."

England stared at him, "Are you mad? I think we should, as the idiot boy said earlier, haul arse."

"Ass," America corrected.

"Anyway, why on earth did you run like that when you saw the security men? What have you been doing?" England asked suspiciously narrowing his eyes. He had sobered up quite suddenly. Also his phone was going absolutely crazy in his pocket. He ignored it.

"CIA."

"They weren't CIA," England replied.

"Non. Zay were not Maurice, Pierre, Marcel or Gaston," France slurred. He was looking at his phone and giggling.

England snatched the phone from him. "Will you stop bloody sex texting people?"

"Sexting, mon cher," France purred.

"You disgust me."

"They obviously need me," America said. "They are complete buzzkills though. They said my job was a security risk… blah blah blah."

"Your so-called job as you called it caused utter chaos in my Capital!" England all but shouted at him.

America looked hurt, "Man, you really hold a grudge."

"You two between you have completely ruined my life!" England all but screamed. "You made me destroy a perfectly good car…"

"… your precious Bentley?" France interjected.

"Well yes… but I mean Germany's car!"

"That was you, mon cher!"

"It was bloody you, you stupid frog!"

They were about to start wrestling when America interrupted, "Dudes! Stop touching each other and stop with the sexual tension! I think we should go back in there and rescue fat Russkie!"

"Why?" England asked.

It was a good question.

"Because we're a team! Team Alpha Awesome Wolf Squadron!" America yelled.

"No we're not."

"Well he'd do the same for us!"

"I doubt that very much," England said, frowning. He was ignoring two buzzing phones now. One was playing 'La Marseillaise' and one playing the theme to Coronation Street. He was determined not to get them mixed up again. He really couldn't cope with that distress.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Jones?" a voice asked, a hand on the American's shoulder.

America immediately spun round and put the man in a strangle-hold, whilst France put his hands up in surrender, his remaining balloons were set free to float up in the darkening sky. England went through the five stages of panic.

"Why are we arrested? We've done nothing!" England protested as they were surrounded by security men. "Well apart from him… Francis! What did you do? Did you get stuck in the plane toilet again with a poor unfortunate mortal?"

France shrugged, "I may have done."

"You're not under arrest. We've been told to take you all in," one of them said.

Two of them were still in some kind of fight with America, but England couldn't really tell as the American was backflipping around the place.

"Alfred!" England yelled. "Alfred! Will you bloody stop all that bloody kungfooing! We're not under arrrest!"

"Mr Kirkland? You're supposed to come with us."

"It wasn't us," England said, uncertainly. He actually wasn't sure if it was them.

"You don't understand. Her Majesty wants to see you," the security man said.

England immediately straightened his back, his tie and his eyebrows. "Oh my! I'm back! Oh yes! That idiot brother of mine has just almost caused World War Three…"

"I thought that was you, dude?"

"Shut up, Alfred. And now I return! The great Nation…" he hurriedly shut up when he realised the humans were staring at him. He coughed, "Yes yes of course. Lead me to the Palace!"

"I'm coming too!" France squealed in excitement. "I adore her Majesty and she likes me."

England's left eyebrow twitched irritably.

"Yeah you're gonna need backup when you're shoved in that jail cell for causing Armageddon, Artie," America said, hitting him so hard on the back that the Englishman fell over.

"Damn."

* * *

Inside the airport, there was a melee as Russia had attempted to do some of his Russian 'kungfooing' on some security guards who had come to arrest him for stealing socks. In the end, one of them had tasered him. This had not gone down well. Tasers didn't really work that well on Nations. The electric current should have been enough to knock a grown adult human to the floor, Russia being a large Nation, just absorbed it and seemed to grow bigger and more angry.

He chased the security guards out of the Sock Shop and was about to chase them all the way down to the Departure Lounge when he was distracted by a sign that said 'Animal Reception'. Thinking this was some kind of animal rescue centre and also thinking that perhaps he might rescue some more kittens (he would also quite like to rescue a puppy he thought, preferably a wolf cub cross) and ignoring the thought that England would defintely not be happy at more felines in his home, Russia wandered in. He was oblivious to the fact that security was scouring the building for him or that they had no idea that their escaped criminal (Russia was carrying four bags of stolen socks) would be in Animal Control…

* * *

As England, France and America were being whisked away in a helicopter, the former thinking thoughts of being restored to his former glory as a Nation, Francis thinking filthy thoughts and America not thinking at all, a nefarious person was looking in horror at the 'Brother Tracker' which now pinged off. The taser had disrupted the implant in Russia's Red Star medal and now there was no way for this dark evil entity to know where he was.

A call was made to the Russian Government that their Nation had gone 'incognito' but when they said 'good' and seemed to be relieved. The dark entity decided to take matters into their own hands.

An Armageddon would be tame in comparison…

* * *

Elsewhere at the Globe Theatre…

King Henry VI, looking a little faded, was auditioning for a role as himself in a Shakespeare play.

"My crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy!" Henry read from the script and then added, "I never said this! What utter rubbish! Who wrote this?" He adjusted the crown on his head and looked around. "Is she supposed to be Queen Margaret? She looks nothing like her!" he said pointing at an actress.

The director and the casting director stared at him. One of them whispered to the other. "Where did we get him from?"

"He was outside pestering one of the understudies. He already had that garb on."

"Erm I sorry…" one of them spoke up, interrupting Henry's continued outburst. "…But you're not really… erm…"

"...Authentic enough." The other finished.

Henry stared at them.

"We need someone who can really get inside as to what Henry was all about."

"All his foibles."

"And his desperation."

"I am not pathetic!" Henry yelled. He waved the script at them. "As my subjects I order you to give me this role!"

King Henry didn't see the security men until he was lifted up off his feet and carried bodily out of the theatre. He was placed none too gently outside.

"You will feel my wrath verily you shall! I curse you!" he yelled and then turned round. "I'm going to tell my friend, Russia," he vowed to himself and headed off, first in one direction and then another when he realised he was going the wrong way. He then finally realised he could materialise anywhere he wanted and did so.

 **To be Continued…**


	42. True Love Never Did Run Smooth

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 42 - True Love Never Did Run Smooth**

England would never ever have thought he would find himself locked up in the Tower of London. But here he was. Despite the fact that the Tower was now the place where they kept the Crown Jewels and was not in fact usually where prisoners were kept anymore.

England sat next to a drunk Frenchman. A drunk unconscious Frenchman. A drunk unconscious naked Frenchman. It was the same Frenchman - not three different Frenchman. That would have been too much. It was enough that he was handcuffed to the 'pervert'.

"This is our winter of discontent…" he said to France. "We have seen better days," he added as he looked down at France's open-mouthed countenance, his dishevelled hair, and the rainbow flag adorning his nether regions. He shuddered and hoped to God someone would rescue him.

To find out how the English Nation ended up stuck in a 5x5 metre cell with France and how his life unravelled even further we have to go back a few hours...

* * *

"This is so freakin' cool!" America yelled at England.

"Oh for God's sake will you put a bloody sock in it? It's not cool, you imbecile," England retorted.

Sat next to him in the helicopter (or 'copter) was France who was swigging from a wine bottle. England didn't even want to know where that had appeared from.

In one way, England was pleased he was being called back to the Palace to sort things out, his brother being such an idiot as to cause an Anglo-Spanish War over Gibraltar. But it was now midnight and way past England's bedtime. He really should have been tucked up in bed with a Horlicks and a copy of Gardeners World many hours ago. He knew he was going to be grumpy in the morning and by Nelson's Column, someone was going to pay.

Not America though, England surmised. The idiot was talking ten to the dozen to the helicopter pilot about his piloting skills in the War. England severely doubted America's rank of Lieutenant-Colonel of the US Air Force. What blasted idiot gave him such seniority?

The 'copter began its descent onto the Palace lawn. England winced as the Queen's prize begonias were blown over. What was the world coming to?

They trooped into the Palace, or should one say America swaggered in, France staggered in and England walked in normally.

"Will you bloody well sober up, you tart!" England hissed at France. "Why don't you bugger off anyway to your blasted job?"

France giggled and took another swig of wine. "Zat is what I am doing, mon cher."

England made the fatal error of ignoring him.

"Walk this way, gentlemen," the footman said, rather pompously England thought.

America attempted to do so and ended up strutting up the corridor next to the poor man.

"What's your name then?" Alfred asked. "I'm Alfred, Lieutenant-Colonel Alfred F Jones of the US Air Force."

The man just tried to ignore him.

"Rude…" America muttered.

"He is called Edmundo and he used to be a Spanish bullfighter before he had a close encounter avec a bull," France said and lurched dangerously to one side and fell onto a plush red velvet chair.

"Idiot," England said. "What rot! Bloody stay there, you damned fool."

France flopped down and England and America hurried on.

"We're here to save the world!" America announced as he stepped into a room at random.

"Get out you damned fool! Can't someone have a damned bath in bloody peace?" someone yelled and America got a foamy sponge in the face.

"Well…" America muttered, slowly closing the door.

"This way, Sir!" the footman insisted. "The Duke of Edinburgh is trying to have a bath."

England clouted America around the head. "Fool boy." He poked his head around the door, "So sorry, Sir… your Highness…" he said and was struck by a dripping wet flannel. "He has good aim doesn't he?" England asked, slowly closing the door.

* * *

"Arthur! Thank God you've come!" the Prime Minister cried. "We have a problem!"

"I can see that…" England said, looking around the 'War Room'. This was the basement that Churchill, the old King and various heads of Armed Forces had planned Operations Overlord, Market Garden (yes, really) and Operation Rescue Agent XX. That latter one England had not been involved in the planning of although he had participated in it. (He still had flashbacks.)

On the basement floor lay Scotland, hugging a whisky bottle (empty, England noted with dismay) and his sporran. His kilt was askew and this showed his white knobbly knees off to good effect. Beside him lay King Malcolm, his crown battered on his head and clutching a sword. England of course was appalled. This was the result of their battle with the South London and Peckham Allotment Recreational Society (SLAPARSE) The members of that illustrious establishment had left, having proven themselves far more formidable in a fight than Scotland or King Malcolm would have credited them. (Scotland would later state that the woman in the tweed skirt suit wearing pearls named 'Hilda' had a right hook that could have laid out Mike Tyson.)

"King Arthur would never have carried on like this," England told the room.

The Queen nodded, "I hereby declare that Arthur Kirkland is renamed as representative of the United Kingdom and Great Britain," she said and left. They all bowed. Scotland muttered something which England hoped was respectable.

"Are they two countries?" America asked.

England sighed, the 'boy' could always be relied upon to ruin the mood. He thought about hitting him around the head again - particularly as the CIA men were still nowhere around, but thought that the Queen would probably not approve. However, he was pleased that he was thoroughly redeemed.

Also, the President of the United States was on the web conference gadget and was in conversation with the Foreign Secretary. It was a meeting of two minds, if either had a mind England thought. Both bobbed their blond heads at each other and if England wasn't seeing things, the 'Prez' as America called him, was scoffing some kind of potato chips as if he were at the movies. England disapproved wholeheartedly. One should not eat potato chips whilst in the presence of the Monarch.

"Right," England said in his most commanding voice. "Where's Spain? I'll speak to him and we'll sort out this silliness in a jiffy."

"Apparently, he's asleep. It is close to midnight," one of the civil servants told England.

"I would hardly call it 'silliness'," Gibraltar ('Gib') said coming into the room at that moment.

"Ah yes, I see. Well, leave this to the grown-ups, Gib." England said. (He really didn't like calling him 'Gib'. He disapproved of name-shortening, even if he did it himself occasionally but that didn't count.)

"Don't call me that. And I don't appreciate you sending us," here Gib nodded to the Spanish Ambassador, a man who looked as if he'd seen 'things', "…to talk to Prussia and Denmark in that disgusting hovel."

"That disgusting hovel is my allotment shed!" England said, utterly appalled.

"You've been evicted from it," Gib told him.

Everyone gasped. Even the US President stopped eating for a few moments and looked shocked.

"That's just a clerical error," England said, waving it off.

"You can't just ignore people like that, particularly SLAPARSE. They are ruthless," the Prime Minister told England.

"And we'll never recover from seeing Prussia's 5 metres." One of the Spanish delegation said.

"He doesn't have 5 metres," England scoffed.

"How would you know?" Gib countered.

"Yeah, you haven't been on holiday with him," America agreed.

England shook his head. He really hoped he would never ever go on holiday with 'Pru' or 'Den'. The thought absolutely disgusted him.

"Right, never mind all that. You!" Arthur pointed at the Spanish Ambassador, who was still trembling and very pale. (England thought that these Spaniards had no backbone at all.) "Get Tony on that videophone."

The man nodded slowly and began dialling on his mobile telephone. England noted with disgust it had a picture of Spain in his bullfighter's costume with his rear on full show on the back.

America reached across and switched off the US President - probably much to the annoyance of that person. Nobody noticed.

Unfortunately, the video link then came back up and it was someone far far worse.

"What have you all done with my brother?" came a horrid screech.

England dropped the china cup he was about to fill from the teapot he'd found on the table. The cup seemed to fall in slow motion. The Prime Minister pressed a red alert button. America scrabbled under a table, Gib followed him. Scotland muttered, "Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble."

Belarus glared at them from the videolink.

"I thought you'd switched the damn thing off!" England said to America.

America shook his head from under the table and then shrugged.

"Fine superpower you turned out to be." England said. Obviously the bloody thing was linked on an open reception with heads of state around the world - not just the US. Unless of course Belarus (for it was she) was sat in the White House.

She wasn't.

"Where is my dearest brother, Arthur?" Belarus hissed at him. Her presence seemed to fill the room. The cups rattled on the table. England was shocked to see tea being spilled.

"I have no idea. I'm not his sitter," England said bravely.

"His tracker is not working," Belarus told him. She glared at him with piercing ice blue eyes.

England shivered. He felt sorry for the big Russian for a moment. He remembered his 'date' with Belarus, she'd seemed quite amenable then. He tried playing on that. "We really must go out again, Miss Belarus. Remember that fish and chip shop we were going to go to?"

A knife slashed through the air and embeded itself in the videoscreen at the other end (wherever Belarus was at that moment). The screen in the Kremlin (presumably) cracked and splintered, the point seemed to be aimed straight at England's forehead.

"Well, I wouldn't expect you to eat mushy peas, Miss Belarus," England said lamely.

Everyone looked shocked and frankly, astounded and just a little in awe of the Englishman.

"You have 24 hours to find my brother or there will be consequences!" Belarus said in a very low dangerous voice. "You and your abysmal country with its 'mushy peas' and stupid weather."

Surely a woman in a blue frilly dress wearing blue ribbons in her long blond hair couldn't be serious? What possible harm could she do to him?

"My mushy peas are the finest you'll find anywhere!" England declared, drawing himself up to his full height of five feet 8 inches. It annoyed him he wasn't taller than America. "What are you going to do anyway? Skewer us with those knives of yours?" England felt quite brave separated by these screens - even if one of them was broken (hers obviously).

Belarus narrowed her eyes and tossed her head towards someone in the background, a shivering pathetic figure who looked terrified, England had not noticed him there before.

"Comrade President Putin?" she called.

The President nodded quickly like a lapdog, his eyes bulged with terror.

"You will release the military might of the Russian Federation on this minuscule silly country unless my brother is returned, da?" Belarus said in a syrupy sweet voice.

The President nodded.

England was aghast.

He was still aghast when the screen was switched off by the shaking hand of the Army Chief of Staff.

"Well done, Arthur. You've just made things a hundred times worse."

"Well… it wasn't my fault! Who'd have thought? The course of true love never did run smooth…" England said lamely.

"Well done, dude Artie! You just started World War Three!" America said, emerging from under the table and clapping England on the shoulder. "And I know you all thought it would be me and my Prez but who'd have thought it would be you starting Armacopalypse?"

"Wait? What? What's Armacopalypse? Surely you mean Armageddon or Apocalypse? It can't be both."

"It is now!"

"I'm afraid Alfred is correct. You've just made things so much worse. We need to find Russia quickly. Who knows how long we have left?!" the Foreign Secretary burbled from underneath the table.

"Twenty-four hours. She just said," England said with a sigh. He was surrounded by morons.

"Then we need to find fat Russkie dude," America said, pulling on his sunglasses and peering at his mobile telephone (England thought this was blatantly stupid - both the act of wearing sunglasses indoors, at midnight, as well as attempting to navigate the touchscreen whilst wearing them). "I'm going to get my homies to help!" he shouted as he left. "I'm on it like a bonnet!"

"What in God's name…" England muttered to himself.

"Will shomeone just be quiet? We're shtrying to shave the world here!" Hamish called from the floor.

England felt like kicking him. Who knows what 'shave the world' meant?

"I'm putting the military on DEFCON 4," the military chief said and went out.

"I've been on that since that lot moved in with me," England said and realised as he pointed around the room that not one of the 'that lot' were actually there.

That was soon to change though as the door burst open and France staggered in. "Calm down mes cheries! I am here, ah oui!" he slurred.

He was wearing a rainbow flag and nothing else.

"Oh no…"

"Oh oui!" France held his phone up and it played a raunchy French tune from its tinny innards. If that wasn't bad enough, the Frenchman began to shimmy around.

"Put your clothes back on!" England hissed.

The Prime Minister covered her eyes. The Foreign Minister just stared. Hamish tried to sing along and failed. The French tune was not 'The Skye Boat Song' so it all sounded very odd to everyone's ears. King Malcolm was still unconscious thankfully. Gibraltar, who had just emerged from under the table, quickly went back. He'd seen enough of France's impromptu stripteases to know when to take cover.

"Stop it, you fool!" England yelled.

But France was not to be deterred and began actually taking England's clothes off for him, plucking at his buttons and wrestling with his belt.

"Get off me!" England shouted. "Someone help me!"

Nobody did. Everyone kept their distance. France, in his drink-fuelled haze assumed they were the audience at 'Le Petit Bas' (translated from French as 'The Small Bottom') and he was at his brand new job working for the 'Buns and Butts' Dance Troupe (it was still nothing to do with baking, of that England was correct).

"Take off your pantalon, Angleterre!" France breathed.

"Noooooooo!" England clutched at his 'pantalons'. It was almost as if he were reliving one of his recurring nightmares.

And it was about to get worse.

The door opened and the Army Chief of Staff walked back in, along with two Generals, an Admiral and the Prince of Wales. The latter was someone who looked up to England as an eccentric uncle ('Uncle Arthur') and England had tried to instil in the prince when he was but a child all the values he'd attempted to impress in his 60 or so monarchs - a love of beer, keeping your pants on and a severe aversion towards the French. He'd largely succeeded too.

What happened next would haunt England for the rest of his days, or at least for the rest of _this_ day, because although he would burn with shame for it for a while, it was not the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to him - it did not even get into the top ten of most embarrassing things to have happened to him (all but one of these involved France in some shape or form, the other involved Hamish).

France fell over and grabbed at England, who promptly stepped back quickly lest France would grab at his crotch and bury his face in it (that was an event that had ended up on the aforementioned top ten), stood on the Prince of Wales' foot, who hopped around and who was then grabbed by France (Francis was remarkably nimble and fast on his feet even after two bottles of wine), who then pulled down the royal trousers.

There was a communal gasp.

"Oh fu…." England immediately stepped forward and did something that made it all worse - tried to pull the Prince's trousers back up.

Then the Queen came back in.

England must have blacked out the rest or else just blacked out with shame.

The next thing he knew he and France had been dragged, handcuffed together (much to Francis' delight, although he was by now hysterical with joy) and thrown in a police van by 'Raoul' and 'Fernando' - the two most unlikely names ever given to Special Branch policemen by a Frenchman.

Arrested for indecent exposure, assault on a member of the royal family, detrousering a member of the royal family, being French in a Royal Palace (the latter was a charge obviously just aimed solely at France and made up especially for him).

"You have to let me out!" England shouted. "I have only 24 hours to save the world!"

 **To be continued…**

 **Next Chapter - Will England and France save the world?**

 **Will France find his pantalons?**

 **Lots of Shakespeare…**

 **Also thank you to all those who have said you are reading this in class - that makes me laugh so much and I'm sure Prussia would approve!**


	43. Cry Havoc!

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 43 Cry Havoc!**

In the Tower of London…

"I'm bloody innocent!" England yelled, beating his fists against the door. He considered using France's head to beat the door with instead of his hands but couldn't be bothered. The Frenchman was now unconscious and that was a better condition to be in at the moment, at least he wasn't bothering England.

How did he end up here? How did his country end up being at war with Spain (or the 'Paella War' as the media were calling it).

He sat on the bench, "This is the winter of our discontent," he said discontentedly at France who snored.

He'd already been back to the Palace once to try to sort stuff out only to be appalled by some despot putting Irn Bru in the teapot and finding his brother now the personification of the UK. Perhaps he should have really left them all to it. It wasn't his fault if Russia kept sodding off. Surely he was still in the sock shop? And surely detrousering a prince of the realm was not as bad an offence as putting Irn Bru in a teapot, wearing the wrong tie or interrupting an Englishman's bath?

Although England doubted that anything would come of this 'Paella War', especially now Gibraltar had been brought into the equation - forgetting it was Gibraltar who had gotten them into the mess and dragged Spain into it but only because someone had said something to someone else who had then told someone else… England was still confused over the details of this and was still unsure how any of it had actually happened. All England knew was that if he hadn't been called away to sort out the idiot American's almost destruction of London by his pizza delivery service none of this would have happened.

He glared at France. It was all his bloody fault. That French tart. His life had never been the same since he'd moved in. And now Belarus threatening them with the bread army... no, it was red army… damn that idiot Italian… it was just too much.

After this stream of consciousness, England took off his old regimental tie and wrapped it around France's neck and was about to tighten it when there was an unpleasant vibrating feeling in his buttocks. Thinking it was some new trick by the Frenchman he tried to ignore it.

It was his phone. Which was a huge relief for everyone concerned (even though there was just himself and France present in this hovel of a cell).

England almost dropped the phone in shock and then prodded, poked, pressed and then finally 'swiped' the said device.

"Hello, who's this? I cannot tell who the dickens I am talking to!" he said. After France had changed all the contact names, he had no idea who he was talking to - it said 'Sexy Hombre'.

It was Austria.

England would not have described Austria as 'sexy' or a 'hombre'.

"It's me, Austria! England, what on earth is going on? Why have you declared war on Spain? And are you out of your small and disturbed mind, kidnapping Russia?" Austria shrieked down the phone. "I and the other Central European countries are stuck in the middle of this!"

"Pipe down you idiot," England said. "I didn't declare war on Spain and I certainly have not kidnapped Russia!"

"Well the gossip chain says…"

"You mean Portugal told Spain who told Gibraltar who told Hungary who told Poland who told…"

"Nein! It was actually Spain who told Romano who told…"

"Romano? I thought he was in London delivering pizzas or trying to deliver pizzas?" England wondered briefly if Romano was still stuck on the North Circular Road. (He was. He was sat smoking a cigarette, having been stuck in his car for three hours. He was plotting England and America's downfall whilst also attempting to chat up the woman in the next car.)

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Arthur. Romano then told Lithuania who told Poland who told Liz who told me."

"So your Government didn't bother to inform you?"

"I'm too busy for politics, Arthur. I have a symphony to write and a busy psychotherapy practice run."

"I'm amazed anyone goes to you, Roddy," England said through gritted teeth. He knew Austria hated being called 'Roddy'.

"Well it's all thanks to you and Francis. In the past few days I've had a severely disturbed driving instructor, a hairdresser and her friend, quite a few policemen one of whom can't even bear to hear a French accent without breaking down, a nurse who was sent because she was burbling about a Frenchman being hundreds of years old who she treated for a broken foot. She seems to believe that you're both immortal gay vampires. I blame all these vampire movies around."

"You mean like Twilight?"

"You've seen it?"

"Of course not!"

"Romania got in touch the other day and he was annoyed that his castle was over-run with teenage girls looking for vampires."

"Yes well, he's a weirdo as well. I'm amazed you're in touch with him."

"One has to keep in touch with one's former subjects."

"You're not an empire anymore, Austria." England said. He was bored now. If the Germanic ex-Empire wasn't going to help him then so be it but he should stop moaning.

"Where are you anyway? I can't get hold of anyone! That young idiot America has gone radio silent. Canada said he's in a top secret meeting - as if! His bear is running the show I think."

"Mr Kumajiro is behind this?" England asked, appalled.

"Well I think so, don't you?"

"It was you lot who voted that I shouldn't have a military!" (Actually, thought England, it was Mr Kumajiro who had been in charge of that meeting.)

"I didn't vote! I'm not on the UN Security Council. Nor am I rotating."

England knew Austria meant a 'rotating member' but it made him snigger anyway. Lack of sleep and tea made him feel spacey.

"Never mind are you going to help me? I need to find Russia," England asked impatiently.

"So you didn't kidnap him?"

"No of course I didn't, you daft Austrian! Last time I saw him he was going into the Sock Shop."

"I don't believe you and neither will Belarus."

England ignored that. "Now I'm in prison," he said and then added, "With France."

"Best place for you both, not before time either," Austria said. "Honestly there's a few people here who have put good money on you two being locked up." (England could imagine the uptight Austrian checking his wallet as he said this.)

England glared at the phone.

"What did you do apart from kidnapping Russians, starting a war with Spain, split up Spain from Belgium, destroying Germany's car by dropping a desk on it, un-authorised usage of a dragon in a capital city, causing a chemical spill with that cake of yours, and then getting thrown off that allotment. To be honest that final one really took the biscuit." Austria took a deep breath. He was actually sat in the Austrian Embassy checking his expense account and writing (on parchment) a letter to his Head of State telling him to evacuate Vienna in case the Russians invaded.

England rubbed his temples as he listened to his litany of crimes. Most of them weren't even his fault, or even France's to be fair. Also they hadn't dropped a desk on Germany's car - it had been an antique bureau. There was a difference.

He hung up and wished he could slam the phone down instead of just pressing a button. He was getting nowhere. He looked through his list of contacts. They had all been changed by France and he had no idea who was who. (The author has put the real contacts in brackets for simplicity.)

'Sexy Hombre' - Austria.

'Butts and Buns' - England had no idea (this was actually the stripper agency that had employed Francis - why it was on England's phone is anyone's guess)

'Mr Love' (this was actually Germany - Francis' sarcasm evident here)

'Denpru' (this spoke for itself, but England didn't twig that effectively France joined Denmark and Prussia together as if they were one entity)

'Mr Fluffypants' (Russia)

'Le Grande Derrière' (Spain)

'Signor Crybaby' (Italy - obviously)

'Signor Bigdick' (Greece)

'Double D' (Ukraine)

'Princess Crazy' (Belarus)

'Goldfinger' (Switzerland)

'Goldilocks' (Poland)

'Lillykins' (Liechtenstein, obviously)

'Sex God' (England hoped fervently that didn't refer to him - it didn't, it was Lithuania)

'BigSpender' (Estonia - who was very rich and owned several hotels although none of the Nations realised this)

'Mr Wang' (England was disgusted at this until he realised it was actually Yao Wang and so had not been changed)

'Mr and Mrs Sequinpants' (Sweden and Finland)

'Small annoying person' (could be anyone - but it was actually Sealand)

'Emperor Palpatine' (Mr Kumajiro)

'Luke Skywalker' (America)

'Snake Hips' (Cuba)

'Chapped Lips' (Canada)

'Darth Vader' (Mr Panda - who England did not even realise had a mobile phone, let alone knew that the panda had his number).

He gave up and picked one.

He expected 'Darth Vader' to be Russia. It wasn't.

A voice shouted down the phone at him in Chinese about a missed Badminton match. England tried to explain that he wasn't ordering a Chinese takeaway, which made the voice shout even louder and then called him a 'fathead' and hung up. England thought then that he'd rung China so he rang again. There was no answer. England swore.

He took a guess and tried 'Luke Skywalker' and was relieved when America's voicemail answered, "Yo dude, you reached the Hero! I'm probably on some secret mission rescuing some lame-ass limey dude who can't hold up his own trousers. Or I'm on the boss level of COD. Call me back or leave a message to reach the Hero. If it's the Prez, you've reached the voicemail of Arthur Kirkland. Seeya, wouldn't wanna be yer!"

England sighed and said, "Alfred, you need to ring me back urgently. I'm stuck in the Tower of London with France. No that's not a pub or some kind of video game, it's a fortress where the crown jewels are kept. No that's not a euphemism or anything," England sighed. He never knew what to say to these voicemail things. "It was built in 1078," he added as if this would help and then began to go into a personal history of the tower. He was about to say something about a siege when America's voice cut in.

"Jeez what yer on about?"

"Alfred!" England had tears in his eyes. "I thought everyone had forgotten me!"

"We have."

England frowned, "Who's the 'we'? Have you found Russia?"

"Nah. But I found Pru and Den who are helping me."

"Oh dear God…"

"Then I got your lame-ass message."

"You just ignored me - I've been locked up here and I thought I was never going to get out!"

"It's been two hours dude," America said.

"How do you know? You weren't even there!"

"Man! Canada told me. Actually Mr Kumajiro told him who told me. He said it was for your own good. You and France sneaking into the Palace and stripping some Prince or something." America as usual sounded very vague.

"WHAT!" England yelled but the phone had died. Without so much as a 'battery low' or anything the phone was about as much use as a brick in England's hand. He hit France several times over the head with it.

France stirred and England actually tried to step back before the Frenchman tried to molest a part of his anatomy but then realised he was still handcuffed to him.

"Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows," England said to himself.

"Oui…" France burbled. "Le derrière."

England shuffled away from him quickly.

He was about to start praying (something he did only sporadically) when the door suddenly imploded.

England doubted it was due to his praying.

"You were only supposed to blow the lock!" came a familiar voice.

"Well how was I supposed to know? I only used a spoonful of the stuff."

Prussia strode in, thankfully his '5 metres' were now covered up. He was followed by Denmark.

England, who seemed to be channelling Shakespeare, said, "What light through yonder window breaks? Well actually door…"

"What's wrong with you?" Pru exclaimed. "Did they torture you?"

"Nah, he's always looked like that," Den said.

"Kesese! Look at France! Quick pass me a marker pen and we'll draw on him!"

"What did you use on the door?" England asked.

"Your Yorkshire pudding mixture. We found it in the fridge in a tupperware box. Honestly, I've never so much tupperware. Almost as much as Austria. He uses it when he goes to Embassy dinners and fills them up."

England preferred not to think about Austria's domestic arrangements. He'd had enough of the damn ex-Empire for one day.

"Did you arrive with America?" England asked hopefully. These two on their own were just awful, he assumed the 'brains' behind the operation had to be America.

"Ja! He's outside neutralising some guards," Pru said, he was busy drawing a moustache on France's upper lip.

"Can you get us out of these bloody handcuffs?"

"Woah! You two are seriously kinky. Aren't they, Den?" Pru said, looking up.

Den nodded, "Doesn't surprise me, dude. Francis usually carries pink fluffy ones around. We're a bit surprised about you though, England."

"Well I'm not surprised. Nothing surprises the Awesome One!" Pru retorted.

"We are not a bloody couple!" England yelled. "Get us out of these damned cuffs!"

"Calm down dearie and put yer knitting down before you drop a stitch," Pru said, finishing off drawing spectacles on France's face.

"Yeah… get thee to a nunnery!" Den added, grinning.

"Wait what? Shakespeare? How do you know…?" England began to say but was interrupted by a ridiculous image that now filled the doorway.

America was dressed as a Tower of London Guard, completely bedecked in red and gold, with ruff neck, red tights, pompom shoes and large black hat. He was also carrying a staff, although this had a balloon on it. "Look at this! It's great isn't it?"

"Why are you dressed as a Beefeater?" England asked.

"Is that what they're called? Do you have to eat beefburgers? Are they the same as hamburgers? I'm not sure about these tights though, man."

"Are they squashing your Florida?" Pru asked.

"Damn right they are!" America said and adjusted his tights self-consciously.

England groaned.

"Right men, let's go!" America said.

"Can you break these handcuffs, Alfred?" England asked him.

"Sure dude!" America said, stepping forward, he then stepped back quickly. "Woah! Francy-pants ain't wearing any pants!"

"I know," England said through gritted teeth.

Den and Pru stepped back.

"Jeez, nobody warned me!" Prussia said, as the rainbow flag slipped off the Frenchman.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks!" Den said and thumped Pru on the back.

"Where are you getting all this Shakespeare from?" England asked, amazed.

"Prince of Denmark, 'Amlet, innit?" Den replied with a shrug as if this explained it all.

"I don't believe you've ever read Shakespeare in your life!" England said. He doubted Den could even read.

"I haven't, I know a bit of 'Amlet though," Den said.

"Right, never mind that men, let's shoot off these cuffs," America yelled. "Stand back!" He pulled out a gun and stepped forward.

"Wait! Where did you get that gun? What have I told you about carrying guns?"

"That it's illegal in this backwards country? Aw man…" America looked crestfallen. His crest was definitely felled.

"And they're dangerous. Give me that thing," England said, trying to grab the thing off America.

"It's mine! You can't have it!"

"You should listen to your dad," Pru said.

"He ain't my dad!"

England (one-handed - his other was cuffed to France) wrestled with America for control of the gun and then accidentally pressed the trigger.

There was a disappointing 'pop'.

"It's not even real!" England exclaimed when he examined the toy cap gun.

"'Course it's not. You said they're illegal over here," America replied.

"Well how did you think you were going to blow off the lock on these handcuffs?" England asked, exasperated.

America shrugged, "Force of will?"

"I am surrounded by imbeciles…" England said.

"Is that Henry IV?" Den asked.

"No, it's me," England replied.

"No, I don't mean Shakespeare or 'Amlet, I mean that miserable looking dude over there." Denmark pointed to the doorway.

King Henry VI stood there. He was pleased that he could dissipate and appear anywhere at will and even better that he could 'home' in on people he knew. Namely, his Nation. Although he was less pleased when he remembered that he'd been imprisoned in the Tower 500 years before.

"I didn't get that job," the king said mournfully. "Why are you in here, Arthur? This is a dreadful place. Full of ghosts…" he added.

"Yes, you for one!" England said. "For God's sake! Can no-one help me?"

"Aye, I expect someone will be along shortly to take your head from your shoulders…" the King said morosely, remembering his own execution.

"Jeez, he's a ray of sunshine isn't he?" Pru said.

"Rubbish at Mario Kart as well," America confided.

"What job did you go for, dude?" Den asked him, trying to slap the King hard on the back and finding his hand going straight through.

"I rehearsed for a play written by someone called Shakespeare."

"Yeah he's rubbish he is," Pru said. He and America had, between them, gotten hold of England and France and were trying to pull them apart. The handcuffs held - of course.

"What role?" England asked, batting America away. Being pulled and stretched was doing nothing for the beginnings of the mother of all headaches.

"Myself."

"Don't know that one," Den said.

"I died here at the age of 49…" Henry said.

"It sounds like you died on stage as well, man," Pru said wisely, looking at the King.

"You could have been a star!" Den said wonderingly.

"You died in this cell?" England asked the King. He shivered.

"Not this one exactly but…" Henry looked around, depressed.

"In the name of John Wayne!" America yelled. "Why are we listening to this dead loser? We have a world to save! I say we dress Francy-pants in pants and get the hell outta here, before the feds get here!"

England actually had to agree with his ex-colony. They were wasting time.

America picked France up and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. "Come on dudes let get some pants on this guy and get outta here!" He stormed off, with England being dragged after him - his left hand attached to France's right, his face uncomfortably close to France's hairy thighs.

"Can't we dress him in your uniform?" England said running down some steps after America.

"Nope. This fancy dress costume is mine now!"

"It's a Guard costume… I mean uniform… what about your jeans, Pru? Den? I mean they're bloody awful but at least they cover Francis' modesty." (England winced at the word 'modesty' - France had never been modest in his long years.)

"These are yours. We raided your wardrobe." Pru said.

"Oh bloody hell…"

"I've got a weapon that can help!" Den said and help up a butter knife.

"Is this a knife I see before me?" England said. "Wait? Did you steal that from my cutlery drawer? I recognise it!"

"Might have…"

"Shut up you blokes! We have to get past the sheriffs!" America said. He looked ridiculous in his Beefeater's costume. The hat was askew on his head and the staff he held had a pink balloon tied to it.

"The better part of valor is discretion," England said as they peeped around the corner.

"Will you shut up with this Shakespeare dude?" America whispered.

"I can't see anyone," Pru said.

"Can't we send the dead dude to see if there's any police around?" Den asked.

"That, my idiotic Nordic nutter is a good idea," England said and turned to Henry, "Your Majesty could you just make yourself invisible and go see if there's actually anyone around?"

"I can't just dissipate like that," moaned Henry.

Pru showed him a fist. Not a big fist but a fist nonetheless.

Henry did - dissipate that is, with a singularly depressed look on his face.

"I hope he comes back," Den said. "I kinda like him."

He did. Just as England was about to say that if you can't even trust dead monarchs anymore who can you trust, Henry re-appeared.

He looked out of breath. Which was weird.

"There are no guards around. And no executioners block, Arthur."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and fingered his collar.

"…But a big black horseless carriage has arrived…" the King continued.

"It's called a car, man," America said with barely disguised impatience.

Henry ignored him, "With some big men with sunglasses…"

"My dudes the CIA!" America yelled. "Yay! They should be able to help us. They're under my command."

"Really?" England was unsure about this, he doubted anyone was under America's command. But had no choice in the matter as America carried France across the car park and therefore pulled England along with him.

"Behold!" King Henry said, pointing at the 'horseless carriage' - a large black MPV. "The gloomy shade of death!" he added, needlessly, one thought.

"Sorted. We'll get in here and get my dudes to release you and Francy, that is unless you want to stay attached to Francy…? Okay okay don't hit me, I don't know, you two are so gay, man… and we'll go rescue Fat Russkie and save the world from Miss Belarussia!" America announced, punching the air and then dropping France on the pavement.

But his euphoria was suddenly cut short as a window wound down and a white paw emerged, pointing at them.

"I have a bad feeling about this…" England muttered.

England was right.

As they hesitated and as Pru wisely said, "This ain't right…" a bunch of well muscled black-suited men leaped out, grabbed them and shoved them in the vehicle.

Mr Kumajiro glared at them. He stroked a cat on his lap, "I've been expecting you!" he said.

 **To be continued...**


	44. Two Minutes to Midnight

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: StormShadow3, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Special thank you: You might have noticed (or not) that the cover art for this story has changed. RebelsAdvocate kindly drew this montage of France & England, summing up the story brilliantly…**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 44 - Two Minutes to Midnight**

"Bloody hell! Mr Kumajiro!" England exclaimed.

"Why on earth did you bring that?" Mr Kumajiro replied, pointing with one paw at France's naked form.

"I had no choice, I'm handcuffed!" England said.

"I know, man. It's bloody horrible," America piped up.

"This car's a bit nice, what's the fuel consumption on it? Do you need it? We need a car for our taxi-ing service," Prussia said looking round.

They were sat in a large black MPV/stretch limo type vehicle with seats facing each other. Namely, three very large muscular men in sunglasses facing them with Mr Kumajiro seated in the middle.

"You don't have a taxi service," Mr Kumajiro said to Prussia.

"Nah we don't. It's been a bit difficult trying to give 'backies' on my bike to customers. They don't seem to like it," Prussia said. He looked sad. Denmark clapped him on the shoulder to cheer him up. Neither mentioned that Prussia's bike was still a pink Barbie bike with tinsel handlebar streamers.

"Shut up! All of you!" Mr Kumajiro yelled suddenly. He looked stressed.

"Jeez what's up with him? Like a bear with a sore head!" America said and then realised he'd made a joke and laughed - loudly.

"Never mind all that, can you unfasten these handcuffs? I expect also you want to whisk me back to the Palace to sort out this ridiculous carry-on? Of course you might want to dump this lot," England said, pointing at his fellow Nations. He understood Mr Kumajiro's rage. But the polar bear hadn't had to put up with the morons for the last few weeks.

"No, you are all coming with me," Mr Kumajiro said.

"You mean us?" Prussia said.

"I said that."

"No you said you are all coming with me. You mean 'us', meaning you and them, it's not just you is it? So you should have said 'you are all coming with us', not me." Prussia said and pointed at the big men in sunglasses. "Why are they wearing sunglasses anyway? It's night-time!"

"Yeah, they're not the CIA!" America yelled.

"Are we prisoners?" Denmark asked, putting his oar in.

"Shut up all of you!" Mr Kumajiro shouted, his left eyelid twitched. He looked like a bear on the edge.

England understood the feeling. Or perhaps it was all this global warming or something?

"Bloody hell, I'm not putting up with this rubbish!" one of them yelled - probably Prussia, but it could easily have been Den or America.

England was just shocked.

"Be quiet! Tell them, Marcel!" Mr Kumajiro ordered one of the men.

"Another bloody French bloody name," England muttered. Honestly, he was sick of this now.

'Marcel' if that was indeed his name (although it is unclear if Mr Kumajiro gave people French names willy-nilly) took out his gun and pointed it at the four Nations (and the unconscious France, especially the unconscious France, who still had his drawn-on moustache and spectacles).

Prussia looked appalled at this. "Let's get him, Den!" he yelled and the two Nations lunged forward.

There was a tussle.

The other two henchmen attempted to get their guns out too. The MPV rocked from side to side and the driver slowed considerably.

England fell on the floor between the two seats and almost dragged France on top of him, which would have been a real disaster.

There was a bang as a gun went off.

England, like all English, did not like and feared guns, screamed a little girlishly and slammed himself down on the floor. His worst fears were realised though when France fell on top of him.

"Aaargh get this bloody drunken pervert off me!" he yelled.

France was rolled off him as Den shoved him out of the way and England was about to thank him but then realised that Den had done this just to get to Alfred.

He couldn't understand why at first and then he saw the bloom of red on the young American's chest.

"No! Alfred!" England sobbed and dragged himself back on the bench and pulled America's head onto his lap.

"You're fading, Artie dude!" America whispered.

"No!" England was distraught. They'd sometimes hadn't seen eye to eye. Especially over bedtimes, comics and who was better - Captain America or Captain Britain (who was definitely NOT gay England would forever ascertain), or even over Yorkshire puddings, the delights of mushy peas or whether it was chips or fries.

Prussia punched out one of the men, "You shot my friend! Nobody shoots my friend!"

"Actually, you tried to shoot him in the War, dude," Den said.

"Yeah but that was war, I mean nobody shoots my friends but me!" Prussia said to the now unconscious man.

"Alfred!" England sobbed and tried CPR (or CRP as America often called it).

"Stop kissing him dude! We know you're gay with dude France but give him some dignity!" Prussia yelled as the car careered around a corner.

"Alfred! Don't leave me with these morons!" England yelled in America's face.

"I won't!" Alfred said suddenly sitting up. "Aw man! Somebody shot my hamburger!" the American said looking down at the spreading red stain.

England sat back. "What?"

"Jeez that was a relief, I thought England had turned gay for you, man," Den said. (Of course, it wasn't a relief that America was alive, just a relief that England hadn't turn gay for him.)

"I'm not bloody gay!" England yelled. "I thought you were dead," he said to America.

"Dead? Why? Why did somebody shoot my hamburger?" America asked. He put a finger in the red stain and then licked it.

"Ketchup?" Prussia asked.

"Gotta have ketchup with a burger, man," America said.

England flung himself back on the seat and covered his head in his hands.

America punched out the other man, "You shot my burger!" he shouted. "Nobody shoots my burger!"

But it was too late, the MPV stopped just as America, Prussia and Denmark were trying to take the gun off the third man and Mr Kumajiro was standing on the seat yelling at them.

The doors were flung open and they were faced with an unsurmountable force (in America's words) and all of them were put in handcuffs. Except England. His were actually taken off. He had a brief respite where he thanked Mr Kumajiro profusely. "Thank you, old chap for freeing me from that French pervert. I knew you'd see it my way. Now take me back to the Palace and I will help avert World War Three."

But his relief was short-lived. Mr Kumajiro had other ideas.

"Leave the Frenchman there," he ordered to 'his' men. "Oh and lock the doors. We don't want him escaping…" Mr Kumajiro shuddered. He dreaded to think what damage a naked Frenchman could do to his 'operation'.

Clearly, England thought this as well, "Oh good, I'm glad you're seeing sense. Best place for him, in my view."

Mr Kumajiro was not interested in England's view at all. He instructed 'his' men that they should also fumigate the vehicle later. However, much to Prussia's delight (he was the only one who noticed) Mr Kumajiro's two unconscious bodyguards were left inside the car with France…

"I'm sure this can all be ironed out. Now first I need a nice cup of tea and perhaps a bourbon cream," England said, rubbing his hands. He ignored his fellow Nations in cuffs. Best thing for them in his view.

A black hood was thrown over his head and his hands were snapped in handcuffs. "I can't bloody see!" England said.

"Ja, Captain Obvious, neither can we!" Prussia yelled.

"Captain Obvious, is that like a proper superhero?" Denmark asked.

"Nope," America said with the confidence of someone who could do a BA in Superheroes. "It ain't. There's a Captain America and a Captain Britain…"

"Captain Britain is not bloody gay!" England yelled as they were led along. There was someone either side of him leading him none too carefully. He heard doors opening, then they were in an elevator.

"I wonder if it's going to be like one of those surprise birthday parties?" Den asked. He was trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.

So the elevator was big enough to contain all of them. Pretty big then. A big building? England thought to himself as he tried to work out where they were. Unfortunately as he'd been trying to bring round a 'wounded' America he hadn't had chance to check where Mr Kumajiro had been taking them.

"Don't be stupid, Den," Prussia was saying to Den. "Course it's not a birthday party!"

England sighed with relief - at least Prussia had realised the implications of their predicament.

"It's nobody's birthday today! Idiot!" Prussia said.

England sighed. "We're in Mr Kumajiro's lair, idiots," he said through gritted teeth.

"Polar bears don't have lairs. Do they?" America said. To England's utter disgust, he sounded like he was eating.

"Are you eating?"

"Yeah, I'm finishing off that hamburger before they shoot it again."

"They were trying to shoot you," England told him.

"No way!"

"Ja, I'm afraid the prissy English uptight maid is right," Prussia said.

"I am not uptight!" England yelled, sounding very uptight. (He didn't dispute the 'maid' bit though.)

"You are though," America said.

"How did you get that hamburger in your huge mouth if you've got handcuffs on?" England asked.

"Crammed it in when I saw the cuffs," America replied, as all heroes would, one assumes.

"This lift is taking ages, we must be deep underground…" England mused to himself, trying to ignore the munching next to him, Prussia's mindless humming and Denmark's loud breathing. His only consolation was that an oversexed France awaited those two unconscious thugs in that car.

"It's an elevator, dude," America said.

"It's a bloody lift."

"Elevator," America said.

"Will you all just shut up? Do you ever stop arguing? This is crazy!" a voice yelled at them.

England thought at first it was Germany. It was the kind of thing he would say. It was of course Mr Kumajiro. He sounded annoyed. If they could see him they would notice that his right eye had developed a twitch and he was texting Austria asking for an appointment at his next psychotherapy clinic.

There was a momentary silence. But only a moment.

"Man you're crazy. It's obviously Aufzug," Prussia said confidently.

"It's elevator," Denmark said.

"So it's the same as in American!" America said. He would have punched the air if he could.

"There is no 'American', you dolt," England said.

"It can't be lift. Lift is when you lift something," Prussia said.

"Don't you bloody lecture me on English," said England.

"Shut them up now," Mr Kumajiro ordered. He needed a drink. It was a fine achievement to drive a polar bear to alcohol.

Blackness overtook them as they were coshed on the backs of their heads.

No doubt the other Nations would have sympathised with Mr Kumajiro.

* * *

When England came round he was strapped to a chair but at least he could see. He also had an awful headache and his eyes hurt. Also there was no sign of America, Denmark and Prussia. Silence. He was parched though and really needed a cup of tea. It must be hours since his last one. He hadn't had a hot beverage since his visit to the Palace.

He looked round and felt distinctly odd. He really hoped France was still locked in that MPV.

He seemed to be underground in a huge room the size of a cathedral. But it was freezing. Ice crystals sparkled on the ceiling high above and the floor beneath him.

"What the bloody hell?" England muttered and then he saw the huge window - the size of his house - looking out onto dark gloom. "Is it raining outside? Are we in Putney?" he asked out loud, forgetting that he'd thought he was underground.

"God, you're stupid," came a voice. Mr Kumajiro came and stood in front him. "I can't believe 'they' said you were the clever one."

"Who?" England asked. Although he felt quite pleased that someone thought he was the clever one. Of course he was. The other Nations were bloody morons. Some of them were several nuggets short of a happy meal. Most were mentally unbalanced and that was being kind.

Mr Kumajiro did not answer but peered at him. "You've been getting in my way for quite a time, England," he said in a vaguely sinister way.

"Me? Why? Where were you going?"

"Don't act stupid with me. You will talk…"

"About what?"

"They said you'd be like this…"

"Like what?" England was genuinely baffled.

"Do you like my lair?" Mr Kumajiro asked, waving a paw around.

England looked round. There were big muscly guards surrounding them. "Not really. It's a bit cold to be honest. Can't you turn up the heating a bit?"

"Yes, global warming. You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"Not really. It doesn't affect me here in England, it's always bloody raining," England replied.

"Soon the whole world will be like this," Mr Kumajiro said, pointing at the ice.

"What? Cold and wet? This reminds of that weekend I once spent in Pontefract."

"IT IS NOT LIKE PONTEFRACT!" Mr Kumajiro yelled. The short polar bear strode off, jumped up onto a seat at a table and ate a piece of seal. He did not offer England anything.

"I don't suppose you have any tea?" England asked. He'd already worked out that Mr Kumajiro was playing the part of an evil mastermind. It was just a matter of time, England thought, before Mr Kumajiro cracked and then he (England) could get out and try rescuing his fellow Nations and then save the world. Or possibly just leave them for a bit - they just held him up. It might be easier to do it without them. Certainly Pru and Den were impediments.

"There is no tea!" Mr Kumajiro said.

England frowned. He now realised that the huge window was not looking out onto rain, not unless fish could fly through the air in London. They were underwater.

"Are we at the Sea Life Aquarium?" England asked, amazed. "I don't think you're supposed to go behind the exhibits like this."

"This is my lair!" Mr Kumajiro sounded really annoyed now. Honestly, did movie villains have this problem? Besides where had his bloody cat gone?

"Oh right…" England looked thoughtful. He was still looking out of the window. "I really think the Thames needs a clean-up don't you? Bloody hell there's a shopping trolley!"

"We need information from you," Mr Kumajiro said. "And we're willing to go to any lengths to get it."

"Really? A cup of tea would be just top. Milk with no sugar, thank you," England replied. "A digestive biscuit wouldn't go amiss either. Don't forget to put the milk in after the hot water. Make the water boiling as well or the tea won't brew properly. I can't abide lukewarm tea, can you?"

"There is just one piece left in the jigsaw to start Armageddon…"

"McVities if you have them," England continued, not listening and fixating on biscuits.

"And all our plans will be in place…"

"Start Armageddon?" England suddenly caught up. He was very very tired. It was, what, two or three o' clock in the morning?

"Did I say 'start'? I meant stop of course…" Mr Kumajiro said but didn't look very convincing. If a polar bear can look convincing at anything whilst eating a bit of seal.

"You're behind all this! Everything that's been happening…" England said slowly, realisation dawning.

"Yes I am," Mr Kumajiro said, "And you have no idea how high up this thing goes. The power behind me."

"So France failing his driving test was your fault!" England said as if a lightbulb had gone off above his head.

"No, that was him," Mr Kumajiro replied.

"That desk crashing through the window...?"

"That was you, England."

"Scotland declaring war on Gib...?"

"That was your fault, England."

"Russia disappearing!" England said. "That was definitely you! And Belarus declaring war on us!"

"All you again, England."

"The chaos in London and the massive traffic jam earlier…" England asked desperately. Surely not everything was his fault?

"That was you, Arthur, no wait that was the idiot American. Actually it was you because you let him get a job." Mr Kumajiro was sounding annoyed again.

"That dragon destroying that Chinese restaurant…" England said. "That wasn't my fault!"

"That was you, England, you annoyed Mr Ping."

"What about…" England scoured his memory. "My cake! I know I used the proper recipe."

"IT WAS YOU, ENGLAND!" Mr Kumajiro yelled. "IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT! ALL OF IT! WITH FRANCE AS WELL, BUT MAINLY YOU!"

"Being thrown off the allotment wasn't me though, that was Pru and Den." England said, as if Mr Kumajiro hadn't just spoken.

"No, you're right, that was the Allotment Society. You have no idea how powerful these people are."

"IT'S A BLOODY ALLOTMENT SOCIETY!" It was England's turn to yell. "How can they be bloody powerful?"

Mr Kumajiro just stared at him and didn't answer.

Unseen by them a dragon swam past the giant window.

"Besides the other nations will be along any minute to stop this," England said confidently and more quietly.

"Oh you really think so do you?"

Mr Kumajiro pressed a button and a screen lit up. A very large television screen split into dozens of smaller screens.

To England's incredulity there were various of his fellow Nations going about their business. And he also realised that it must be much later than he'd thought. He also realised that the other Nations were actually just as boring as he was.

Ukraine was doing some kind of exercise that involved her bouncing around energetically. Her boobs were also bouncing around energetically. England looked away quickly.

Hungary was shooting arrows into a dummy with unerring accuracy. The dummy had a photograph attached to its head. The photograph was of England's face. He had no idea what he'd done to upset her.

Germany was doing push-ups. There was a book lying on the floor next to him: 'Reasons I'm a better nation than England'.

Italy was asleep somewhere that looked suspiciously like the room Germany was in.

Romano was still in his pizza delivery van, looking very moody and chatting up a woman in the next car. Presumably the traffic jam caused by America was still occurring.

Austria was filling in his expense claim form, his calculator by his side.

Lithuania appeared to be lying on a bed with a cold flannel over his eyes, presumably suffering from another migraine caused by…

…Poland who was sat in a bathtub, painting his toenails a garish pink, wearing a facemask and a polka dot shower cap and surrounded by telephones (the gossip chain).

Sealand was being dragged out of Sweden and Finland's kitchen by a harrassed looking Sweden, whose glasses were askew. Evidently the child did not wish to go to school. Or somewhere. It could be the destination was England's house for all England knew. He hoped not.

There was another camera that showed England's kitchen - he recognised the 'I heart Blackpool' mug, the packet of Rich Tea biscuits and the Gardeners World magazine left on the table. Thankfully, there were no Nations there.

England dragged his eyes away, as fascinating as it was, especially when he saw China doing Tai Chi in the Chinese Embassy's garden.

"You've been spying on me! On all of us! Wait 'til I tell…" he stopped and looked at the scariest Nation. Belarus. She was practising her knife skills on a dartboard. There was a photograph pinned up on the bulls eye. It looked like him. Did they all hate him? "…Belarus!" he finished with glee.

Mr Kumajiro ignored him. "We need the key to your allotment shed," the bear told him.

"What? What on earth for?" England said.

"You heard me."

"I have no idea where it is..." England began to say.

"Guards! Men! Search him…"

England was lifted up, pummelled, poked, patted down… it was like being stuck with France again. "I don't have it! I have no idea where it is!"

"Take him away!" Mr Kumajiro said.

"Wait… I might remember if you give me tea…"

But it was no use.

A hood was placed over his head and again he was thrown in an elevator, marched down a corridor and thrown into a cell with three idiots.

"Oh no… not you three…" He groaned when he heard the voices (he was still blind and still cuffed).

"Yo, it _is_ elevator…"

"Told yer…"

"Nah you're both wrong…"

England could not believe they were still arguing about that. What on earth were they going to do? Clearly, Mr Kumajiro had nefarious plans of his own and seemed to be pushing for a war. But why? And to what end? And why did they want the key to his allotment shed? And why did he still have a hood over his head?

"What time is it?" he asked his three companions. He hoped one of them could at least tell the time.

"About half past three." That was America.

"What?"

"Half past three, get your hearing aid in, grandma." Came Prussia's voice.

"It can't be. The Nations were all doing morning stuff when I saw them and it's not afternoon, we haven't been here that long," England said.

"Nations? We're being rescued?"

"No, I mean er…" England still felt dirty having spied on the other Nations.

"Oh yeah…" Alfred was saying, "Nine o' clock."

"Idiot, do you have your watch on upside down again? I've told you before." England said.

Silence.

"So we have less than 15 hours to find Russia and save the world." England said glumly.

"Yeah. You're never going to find him in that hood, dude." That sounded like Denmark.

"How can you tell I have a hood on?"

"Erm we can see you!" Prussia said. "Jeez…"

"You mean you're not wearing a blasted hood?" England yelled and then found someone actually taking the hood off and he stared at Prussia, Denmark and America all sat around looking morose. They weren't wearing handcuffs. He was.

"Damn you all!" he said dramatically and sat in a corner, fuming.

Who could come and rescue them? France sans pantalons? He shuddered.

 **To be continued…**


	45. Apocalypse Please

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: StormShadow3, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 45 - Apocalypse Please**

In a dark dismal cell in Mr Kumajiro's evil lair, 50 metres beneath the River Thames. Well actually built in the River Thames, not underneath it, because then they'd be underground… (Author's note)

"So there isn't going to be any birthday cake?" Den asked. He sounded sad.

"No! For the last time. No! This isn't a birthday party. It isn't anyone's birthday. Today is not, for the last bloody time, anybody's birthday," England yelled.

Den sighed.

"Yer know, you're a right misery guts," Prussia said and sat down next to Den.

"But Artie dude. You're wrong!" Alfred said.

England ignored him. He really couldn't be bothered to talk to someone wearing a Beefeater costume. (Alfred, not Arthur.)

"Ja!" Prussia yelled. "Wait what? He is?"

"Yeah man! It's always someone's birthday!"

"I bet it's fat Russkie's. It feels like it. Dark, gloomy, the end of the world…" Prussia shivered.

"IT IS NOT RUSSIA'S BIRTHDAY!" England yelled. He really was at the end of his tether. Did they not understand that they didn't have long before Armacopalypse or whatever it was America called it?

"Wow. I bet you're fun at birthday parties. I'm not inviting you to my next one eh, Den?"

Den shook his head. He still looked upset that there would be no cake.

"Artie wouldn't go anyway. He doesn't like clowns. They scare him," America confided.

"No they don't." England said.

America nodded at Pru and Den confidingly. Pru raised an eyebrow.

Den said loudly, "So does Austria! Can you remember when we dressed as clowns that time and laid in wait in his bathroom? Or that time when we dressed as clowns and fought him at the Schleswig War!"

"I fought _you_ at the Schleswig War!" Pru said.

"Did you?" Den said, looking confused.

"I wasn't there," England said, relieved.

"Anyway, once we dressed as clowns and… or was it just me? It could have been just me…" Den said and then stopped as he tried to think.

"Well back to Reality FM," England said.

"Is that a real radio station?" America asked with no trace of irony.

England put his head in his hands. "We need someone to get us out of here," he said. "What's happened to your superstrength?" He asked America.

"Well I don't think I'm over that flu," America said.

"You never had flu! You were trying to get out of going home! You should all go home!"

"Ja! And we will once we get out of this place! This is crap. No beer!" Pru said.

"Oh yes, go and leave me to sort out your bloody mess," England suddenly said and paced up and down, thinking hard, not realising that he'd just contradicted himself. The others looked at each other and then shrugged.

"Maybe Francy-pants will rescue us?" Den said hopefully.

"Let's hope he's wearing pantalons," Prussia added. Denmark looked worried at this.

England shuddered. He doubted France had ever rescued anyone. Ever.

And then the door opened and two big men stomped in, without a word grabbed Pru and Den and then stomped out.

"Yo! Where are you taking my dudes?" America yelled as the door slammed in his face.

England felt actually quite relieved that those idiots had gone. He was hoping for some peace and quiet so he could think.

But America had other ideas. With a mouth as big as Alabama, or probably Montana (or probably a State that England could actually name), America yelled, "Bring my dudes back, dude!"

"Will you shut your mouth, Alfred? While they're gone we might actually make up a plan to get out of here."

"Do you think they're being tortured?" America asked.

England really hoped so, but didn't say that. After all, there was only so much luck he could have. Today was not really turning into his day.

* * *

"You will tell me everything I need to know," Mr Kumajiro said in a very sinister voice.

"Ja okay!" Den said happily.

"Nein! I will tell you nothing! I was the top interrogator for the Gestapo so you will get nothing out of me," Pru said.

"No he wasn't!" Den scoffed. "He used to make the tea."

"I was not the tea lady! That's a lie!"

"They used to make you go down to the bakery and buy buns. Germany told me."

"He's lying!" Pru almost screeched.

Mr Kumajiro rubbed his temples. This was too much.

If Pru and Den hadn't been tied to chairs they would have been fighting. Despite being 'best buds' forever or something, they fought constantly - usually over who had the best hair, whose turn it was to wear the 'good shoes' (they shared a pair which was sad in itself) and who was the best drinker, amongst others.

"I need the key to that allotment shed!" Mr Kumajiro yelled.

They shut up. "We don't have it. England's got it." They both said finally.

"He is an idiot." Mr Kumajiro didn't want to get into the intricacies of why on earth these two fools were living in a shed. Or why England, who Mr Kumajiro thought was a moron, albeit one of the cleverer Nations had allowed these two imbeciles to live there. Perhaps an Englishman's shed wasn't as sacred as the Allotment Society had led him to believe? He shivered, despite being used to the cold, the shady people from SLAPARSE with their cloaks, spades and talk of begonias and tomatoes gave him the shivers. He was actually a little worried what they would do if they found out that he couldn't get hold of the key. It was vital to their plans.

"Yeah well he's a meanie. He wouldn't let us live in his precious Bentley." Den said.

Mr K could hardly blame England for that. He was seriously thinking about fumigating the place after Pru and Den had been sent back to their cell.

"What do you want it for anyway? Have you lost the key to your igloo?" Pru asked. "Kesese!" He would have high-fived Den but obviously they were tied up. Which was a shame in his eyes. He was confident that any moment his bruder would show up and sort all this out. Unless he was doing his paperwork.

Mr K was about to say something when a phone playing Shania Twain's 'Main I Feel Like a Woman' interrupted the proceedings.

Den sang along.

Pru shook his head.

Mr K took a phone out of his shorts pocket and answered, "Yes? Listen, I'm in the middle of something…" Mr K could be heard saying. He turned away and began whispering.

"Trouble at the North Pole?" Pru asked.

"Yeah Santa needs his polar bear back," Den said.

"That's reindeer," Pru said.

"I should know I lived with Finland and he's Santa," Den told him.

"Don't be daft, it's reindeer. Like Rudolf and all them others."

They began arguing about reindeer and the names of Santa's reindeer.

"Comet, Vomit, Dasher, Flasher, Prancer, Dancer, Poser..." Pru was saying.

"You're wrong!" Den sounded horrified.

Mr K turned round. "Will you two shut up?" He yelled. How on earth had England put up with them? "Listen I can't talk now. I know I missed our last badminton match. You can just re-book the court, can't you?" Mr K said into the phone.

"Nefarious," Pru said finally.

"What?" Den asked.

"Nefarious polar bear," Pru said and nodded at Mr K.

"I thought you said 'no fairies'," Den said.

"Why would I say 'no fairies'?"

Den shrugged. He looked bored.

"Yes, I will get this information. We need that key, but I'm afraid that these imbeciles are useless," Mr K said into the phone.

"He means you," Pru said, nodding at Mr K and then looking over at Den, who was also tied up.

Den frowned. "He said 'imbeciles' so I think he means me as well," Den said, weirdly.

"That made no sense."

" _You_ make no sense," Den replied and then sulked.

* * *

"Fairies!" England said suddenly.

"I don't think that's fair," America said slowly. He had been walking up and down trying to think of a way out.

"No, I mean Tinkerbell can help us."

"I don't think she's real, dude. I think you have to face facts and realise that she's a symptom of your drinking problems."

England stared at him, "Where did you come up with rubbish like that?"

"Australia said something about it."

"You mean Austria?"

"Yes, him as well."

"You mean they both said that?" England doubted that Australia would say anything about England's drinking. He hadn't seen the ultra laid back Australian in ages.

"We all say that, dude."

England ignored him. "I'm going to summon a fairy," he said.

"That's no way to talk about Austria!"

England turned to him, "Do you have any chalk?"

"I have some crayon," America said and handed it to him.

England nodded, "Draw a pentagram on the floor," he said indicating with his handcuffed hands towards the floor.

"A what?"

England was prepared for this. He doubted sometimes if America had ever gone to school. "A five-sided star. Pent means five."

America looked skeptical but bent down anyway, shoving his arse in England's face.

"No, five pointed. That's a pentagon." England said as patiently as he could.

"That's not what you said."

"Isn't it?" England wondered if he was going mad. (He was.)

America sighed heavily as if this was all too much. "Won't this do? Why can't you do it anyway?"

England wordlessly showed him his handcuffed hands.

"Ah yeah." America sighed again as if he'd been asked to do something very very arduous. He tried again.

"That's a triangle with another triangle," England said impatiently.

"Yer know. Why don't you just call her, text her? These fairy chicks are a bit sensitive. They don't like just being summoned," America said, as if he knew.

England looked at him with a raised eyebrow. He doubted if America knew anything about girls at all, certainly not fairies. Certainly not fairies who were apt to be bad-tempered. They never put that in the Disney movies. "She might be a little… short."

"Yeah well she's a fairy isn't she? Isn't she supposed to be short?"

England sighed again. "You know that's not what I mean. And besides, I thought you didn't believe in fairies!"

"I'm not falling for that again. I know she won't fade away and die. I'm not a little kid anymore, Artie," Alfred said, but his lip trembled a little. He'd gone suddenly from not believing in fairies to worrying about their demise.

"We don't have time for this," England said.

America nodded as his phone began playing 'Hail to the Chief', he checked it and then ignored it.

"Who was that?"

"Oh someone who probably thought I was a pizza delivery guy."

" _You_ were a pizza delivery guy!"

"No," America explained laboriously as if talking to a two-year old, while shaking his head, "I was someone who passed on information to the pizza delivery guy. Get with the plan, Artie."

"Never mind all that, draw a star."

America sighed again and got down on his hands and knees and drew a very rudimentary star on the floor in green crayon. He wrote 'star' next to it.

England walked around it three times and then stood in the middle. "You'll have to chant with me."

"I'm not doing that. I honestly think this is bullshit."

"I taught you not to swear, Alfred. And get that gum out of your mouth."

"Jeez…Twinkle twinkle…"

"It's Tinkerbell… oh for God's sake! In the name of King Henry's trousers…"

"Yes?" King Henry suddenly appeared next to him.

"Ah! King Henry! You could help us!"

"I don't know if I can. I'm feeling a bit depressed about my job prospects," the dead King said.

America went to pat him on the shoulder but his hand went straight through, "I know how you feel, dude."

"No you don't, Alfred, anyway, shut up," England said. He turned to Henry, "Could you go back to my house and ask Tinkerbell to…"

"Do you have bus fare?" the King asked.

"Bus fare? You're a bloody ghost!" England exclaimed.

"Yeah, they won't see you, idiot!" America said scoffing. "So you don't need to pay!"

"You could just appear there, can't you?" England continued.

"Well I could but it's not very polite, is it?" the King said.

England felt like banging his head against a wall.

"Dude's right, dude. I mean we all know that you don't like people just barging into the kitchen."

England finally snapped, "Will you all just shut up!? This is getting us nowhere! The President of Russia under Miss Belarus…" (he ignored America's childish sniggering) "…is going to destroy us all if we don't find Russia by midnight. And for some reason that psychopathic polar bear has engineered this whole thing or something… Mr Kumajiro wants a nuclear war!" England said finally.

"Yeah, global warming dude," America said.

"Global warming! By George, Alfred, you're right!" England said and kissed Alfred on the forehead.

"I will go and find this fairy person but it really worries me…" King Henry said. "And I really hope that she doesn't think I'm being too forward."

"I'm asking you to bring her here. Not bloody take her on a date!"

King Henry sighed and disappeared.

"Bleurgh! Why'd you kiss me, man? I ain't Francy!" America said, rubbing his forehead. He was quite pleased he was right though.

"Global warming! Of course! You're right. Mr Kumajiro wants to stop global warming. He's always going on protest marches."

"So?"

"So… don't you see?"

"Nah."

"A nuclear war will bring about a nuclear winter."

"Will it?"

"Yes! But what on earth do the Allotment Society have to do with this? Why are they behind it all? And I still don't know why they want my shed key."

"I reckon it hides some massive doomsday machine," America said.

"Don't be ridiculous, Alfred. You watch too many silly movies."

America nodded sagely, "Honestly, the baddie always has some underground lair and then some plan to finish off the good guys, he always tells them first though and then he ties them up on the end of a long rope and leaves them to be fed to the sharks."

"I'm going to stop you watching those James Bond movies. I don't think they're a good influence," England said.

Alfred ignored him but began singing various James Bond themes. This would not have been so bad if he could hold a tune. As it was he couldn't hold a tune in a bucket. He was also getting the lyrics wrong.

"Piefall!" Alfred suddenly sang. "This is the end, hold your pants and count to ten!"

"Who taught you that?"

"Sealand. Dude's odd but he knows his tunes."

England doubted that. But before he could say anything else, King Henry reappeared right next to him with a very angry, pissed-off tiny fairy.

Tinkerbell buzzed around Arthur's head like a very aggressive wasp.

"Tinks! You know I love you. I only kissed Alfie because he came up with something!" England said. "Oh you didn't actually see anything…"

"I'm not gay!" America said quickly.

England held up a hand to shut him up. He cocked his head to listen. "But that's outrageous!" he said finally. "But Tinks! You can't just say you won't work for me! I was only going to ask you to go get my wand or use some magic and get me out of these cuffs."

America laughed, "Dude! Why didn't you say?" and promptly used his 'super-strength' and broke the cuffs in half.

England glared at him.

"Why won't the little dude work for you? I mean I don't blame her an' all that…I bet she was on minimum wage."

England looked upset, "She says she's found another employer."

Alfred nodded.

"Apparently, they've offered her 'dental' and she's now in a union!"

Alfred put a commiserating hand on England's shoulder. "Dude, that's rough. But to be honest, it was coming."

England looked as if he were going to cry, "Tinks, can you at least get us out? No? Well, bring my wand? Really? Well I call that rude! And Captain Hook is not that bad. I did have a word with him about that sexual harrassment claim you brought against him. Your union said what?"

America, who thought Captain Hook was really just England's dark drunk subconscious (although he wouldn't call it that as he didn't use words like 'subconscious') just shook his head.

"She just hit me with her wand!" England said to America.

"Man! If you're going to get beaten up by a fairy…" America muttered, leaning against the wall of the cell.

"She's gone… I can't believe this…" England said slowly.

"I'll help you, Arthur. You can rely on me," King Henry said.

"Really? Could you go back to my house and get my wand? It's in the chest under my bed, under the cloak. Ignore the wizards hat and the book and the sword."

Alfred shook his head, "What a load of rubbish. You should give that stuff to charity, Artie. It's all mad."

"Wand? What does it look like?" King Henry asked.

"Like a bloody wand! Like a big stick! In the name of King George!"

Henry looked upset, as he always did when Arthur mentioned other Kings.

"You're not being very nice to the dude. It's not his fault he's stupid. I expect it's having all those wives," America said confidently.

"That was Henry the Eighth," England said.

"There were more Henrys after me?" Henry asked, his eyes brightening.

"Yeah, they were all mad as well," Alfred said gloomily.

England gave the American a dead arm. "Shut up," he hissed.

But Henry had already gone.

"Dead dude is useless though, Artie. I doubt he can help," Alfred said.

"Yes well that may be, but we need help, Alfred. Otherwise we will never get out of here…"

At that moment, the door was flung open and their 'hero' appeared.

"Bonjour! Did you miss me?"

"Bloody hell! Get some pants on!" England yelled.

"Jeez…" America muttered.

Behind France were drunk unconscious guards.

"How...?"

"Wine, mon chers!" France said in some kind of explanation.

It was best not to ask any more, England thought. He'd made that mistake too many times in both the Wars he'd been allied with France.

At that moment, King Henry reappeared, covered his eyes when he saw France and handed England his wand. "It was on the kitchen table."

"Really? That's not where I left it," England asked. They stepped out of the cell. He waved his wand at France's nether regions, "Hubble bubble clothe this tart, make him look a little bit smart." He hoped this spell would work - it had been essential when they'd shared a trench in the first World War.

"That's lame, dude," America said but was agog when France's nether regions were indeed clothed.

They could have blamed England's spell for this. But England, giving his wand a suspicious look, couldn't remember ever magicking up pink lurex shorts before.

"Mon dieu!" France said looking down at himself.

They strolled out past the prone guards.

"Ah well… I suppose that spell kinda worked okay," America said, strolling off. "At least I didn't turn purple this time. That was embarrassing," he mumbled. "Now let's kick ass!"

England, France and King Henry looked at each other. None of them wanted to tell America that he now had a very long, very furry tail hanging out of the backside of his trousers.

 **To be continued...**


	46. The Man with the Golden Poncho

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: StormShadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 46 The Man with the Golden Poncho**

"I just saw a dragon."

"I think you're drunk."

"I think _he's_ drunk."

These words were spoken by Pru, then Den then Pru who nodded at Mr K, who in turn was still trying to get some sense out of them. He was failing.

"You will leave me no choice but to torture you…" Mr K said.

"God, you're already doing that, mate. This place is the pits and no alcohol! What's going on?"

"Is that my bruder there?" Prussia nodded at the tv screens showing various Nations. "Are you in love with him? He ain't gay you know."

"Actually, sorry to tell you, but he is. With Italy. They go on date nights together," Den said.

"That's a lie!" Pru yelled.

Den was watching the TV screens though, "This is great. What channel is this on? Those two goobers there kill me. They look just like Berwald and Tino."

"It is Berwald and Tino, you idiot. He's spying on the other Nations. Did you have a camera on us?" Pru asked Mr K.

Mr K shook his head, "You're not important enough," he said crushingly.

Den nodded, "Yeah, I wouldn't watch us either."

"There's Miss Double D!" Pru yelled.

Mr K winced. They were both giving him an headache.

"Now all we need is some popcorn and a close-up of Miss Double D doing some more of those chest expanding exercises that she does in a morning… so I heard…" Pru was saying. He saw Den's look and added quickly, "Hey, it's only what I heard. Don't forget I used to live at fat Russkie's house and she stayed over sometimes. I don't have a crush on her! I really don't!"

"Hey I'm not here to judge!" Den retorted.

Mr K turned to his henchmen, "We'll start the torture," he said in a sinister voice - in a slight Canadian accent, which sounded frankly odd.

* * *

"I still can't believe she left my employ," England was still moaning.

"Will you put a sock in it?" America said.

"Oui, I agree with l'Amerique. Put a sock in ze mouth, mon cher."

"I'm really not listening to anyone wearing such awful shorts," England replied.

All three Nations, along with King Henry, who slouched along beside England, were sneaking along a corridor.

"We need a gun," America hissed.

"I don't think we need anything…" England said, looking around. "Where are all the guards?" he raised an eyebrow at France.

"Zay cannot party like moi," France said with a shrug.

"Indeed."

They halted at a corner with England in front and all bumped into him. "Will you all just back off?" he hissed. "Honestly, I can tell you lot weren't trained in the Special Forces like me."

"Special is right," America said in a bored voice. "Can we get a move on? It's almost lunchtime."

"Do you not want to rescue leetle Gilbert and young Matthias?" France asked. (For some reason, France, seeing himself as 'Big Brother France' although nobody ever called him that, took it upon himself to often call the other Nations by their human names.)

America thought about this, "I'd like to say yes. But yer know what? I really need some food, otherwise I think I'm gonna faint."

"Oh my God! Can you think about something other than your bloody stomach for a while? It's all of what? Six hours? Since your last meal?"

"Six hours?" America looked panicky.

"And we need to find Russia anyway," England hissed as they headed down the deserted corridor. "Where is everybody?"

"Well… Zere was Marcel, Tristram and Percival in ze car…" France said, counting them off on his fingers.

"Don't tell me anymore!" England said.

"We partied! I found a nice bottle of Beaujolais…"

"Those poor blokes."

"And zen when zay had passed out I got out and I came in here and found ze canteen. I had a very nice latte with a young man called Peregrine…"

"Those are not real names!" England said suddenly. "What a load of tosh!"

"I got his number, so it must be true!" France suddenly produced a piece of paper with a series of numbers on it.

"That don't look right, Francy-pants." America said, squinting. "Too many numbers. I think you're a big fat fibber." America told him.

"We partied avec Fabian, Maurice and Dave…"

"Ha! You've already used that name. Maurice! As if!" England said.

France looked upset. "I have no idea what you mean. I know you are jealous, mon cher that I am so popular…"

They turned a corner, still no sign of guards. England was wondering if in fact France's story of exhausting the guards by partying was true.

"So I am a hero as well as popular, non?"

"I'm the hero! Tell him, Artie dude!"

"Shut up, both of you!" England said. "If we're caught, Mr Kumajiro won't hesitate to lock us up properly next time. Where's the exit, France?"

France smiled. He was quite pleased that America had been told to shut up and that England was asking _him_ for advice. "I bet if we all walk zis way…" he said and sashayed down the corridor.

"I ain't walking like him. He walks weird," America confided to England.

"We should be going up, I mean up some stairs. We are actually underwater," England told them.

"I think you're a bit mad actually, Artie," America said.

"No, we're under the Thames."

"Really? How would you know?" America asked.

"When Mr Kumajiro questioned me there was a window and we were underwater."

"Like in Thunderball or The Spy Who Loved Me or…"

"Will you shut up about James Bond, besides he was English you know," England said, hoping this would shut America up.

"Scottish," America said.

"What?" England's left eyebrow twitched.

"He was Scottish."

"Here we are. L'ascenseur," France said.

"What?" America asked.

"He means… I don't know. What do you mean, France?"

"Elevator, mes cheries," France said. He took a puff on a French cigarello and blew the smoke in England's face.

"Same as in American," America said, clapping France on the back and shoved his way in. "Just stand back from the middle of the floor."

"In God's name, why?" England sighed, shooting a horrid look at France and coughing. There was a 'no smoking' sign on the lift wall. Apparently, villainous polar bears had to abide by Health and Safety in the Workplace guidelines.

"Because the floor might just give way any moment and we'll be plunged down in a shaft and into a shark infested pool," America said and stood at the edge of the compartment. He pressed all of the buttons hopefully.

England stood resolutely in the middle of the floor and glared around him.

"You are a hero, mon cher," France said.

"Don't bloody touch me, and stop blowing your French smoke in my bloody face," England said.

"Ooh lala!"

"Shut up men! We're here and it's time to kick ass and find a MacFlurry!" America said as the elevator/lift stopped.

"And Russia…" England reminded him.

"Oh yeah and him."

* * *

Whilst England, America and France (and King Henry) were not rescuing anyone other than themselves and also not finding Russia, Prussia and Denmark were being tortured…

"Aaaaargh! This is terrible! Stop stop!" Den yelled.

"I take everything back! I'll tell you anything you want! Just stop!" Pru shouted.

Mr K nodded and held up a hand to his henchmen to stop the horrid torture.

Pru and Den slumped in the chairs.

The beer pooled around their feet. Two large beer barrels were now empty.

"You held out longer than I expected," Mr Kumajiro said with a hint of respect.

"That was awful. You're horrible, you are." Denmark said. He was about to say he was going to 'tell on' Mr K to Finland and Sweden but bit back his tongue.

"Ja, all that beer... Wasted…" Pru choked back tears.

Mr Kumajiro nodded, "It was necessary," he said.

The henchman lifted another beer barrel up.

"Nein! No more! Don't pour any more out! We'll tell you everything!" Pru said desperately.

Mr K smiled and nodded. He jumped onto his swivel chair, his small legs swinging and waved a paw at them, "Proceed, tell me where the key to the shed is."

"Ah right… when we said everything…" Pru began to say.

Mr K gave a wave at his henchmen who picked up a beer barrel.

"Noooooo!" Pru and Den both shouted.

"We do know where it is!" Den said.

"We do?" Pru said. He looked doubtful.

Den gave him a knowing look, "Ja! You remember?"

Pru thought about it. "Oh ja, now I do!" he said looking at the beer barrels. It had been terrible to see beer being poured away like that. If he'd thought Mr Kumajiro was villainous before, he certainly did now.

"Ja! Perhaps a mug of beer will help us as well?" Den said.

"You get beer when I get answers," Mr K said.

Pru and Den exchanged looks.

"It's in England's underwear drawer," Pru said confidently.

"Ja!" Den agreed. "Now where's that beer?" he added hopefully.

"We checked. You are wrong," Mr K said.

"Jeez… you went in England's undies drawer?"

"We will risk anything to get that key," Mr K told them ominously.

"I can't imagine anything worse than Arthur's undies drawer," Den said.

"Francis' undies drawer?" Pru countered.

"Blimey."

"Where is it?" Mr K said and nodded again at his henchmen.

"Wait! I know I know!" Den yelled. He would have put his hand up but his hands were tied behind his back to the chair.

Pru shushed him and thought hard and then he had an idea. A good one of course. After all he was the most Awesomest Nation that ever existed. He was looking at the range of TV screens. "It's not where the key is that I can tell you, it's who has it now…" he said mysteriously.

Mr K stopped whizzing round and round on his swivel chair and looked at him, "Go on, I'm listening." This kind of made sense. After all, he knew that the tea-obsessed Coronation Street addict was a crafty bastard. It wouldn't surprise him if the key to the most powerful weapon known to man (or Nation) had been given to a fellow Nation for safe-keeping. He didn't believe that England didn't know where it was. SLAPARSE had warned Mr K that they couldn't rely on the meglomaniac superpowers to start the Apocalypse (or Armacopalypse as England and America had called it) and that they would have to do it themselves.

Pru smiled and looked at the TV screens showing the various Nations going about their business.

Den held his breath.

"England gave it to the one person he knew you would never suspect…"

* * *

"I wonder where I did put that key?" England ruminated.

"We don't care," America said as they walked along. They were now out of the 'lair', having argued over and over about the exit, America wondering if there was a 'gift shop', France pausing long enough to find some men's loos and look at his hair, and were trying to hail a taxi.

"Do you have any money?" England asked.

"Me?" America looked startled. "English money?"

"Seeing as we're in London, yes."

"Nope."

Suddenly there was a terrible rumbling, like distant thunder coming closer.

"Quick get some shelter, this is it! It's war. It sounds like bombers. I thought we had more time. I thought…" England was saying, shoving America and France down an alley.

"Woah! It's my stomach! I'm hungry!" America said, grabbing England. "Stop panicking, dude."

"You compete knob."

"Why? It's not my fault, I haven't eaten in hours and hours…" America looked close to fainting.

But France was swooning, "Arthur! Mon cher! You would have saved my life! You do love me!"

"No I don't."

"He didn't, you daft Frenchie. He thought it was a bomber. It was my stomach!" America said as if talking to an imbecile. "Tch! Europeans." He strode off. "Where's the nearest McDonalds?"

England growled to himself. This was intolerable. "We need to go to the Airport."

"Good idea! I bet there's a McDonalds or a KFC there!"

"No, that's where we left Russia!"

* * *

"Liz has it," Pru said eventually.

"Hungary?" the polar bear looked at him.

Den also looked at him and was about to say something that he was indeed 'hungry' but then decided not to.

"Ja. Hungary has the key. So go on your way, little polar bear and leave us in that cell with that nice beer. We'll look after it. Make sure it doesn't come to any more harm."

Mr K gave him a hard stare. He turned to his henchmen, "You two, go to the Hungarian Embassy and get Miss Hungary and bring her here."

Den's hair, already on end, stood up even more on end, "Really? You're just gonna go get Liz? Wow. She'll kick your heads in."

"We are not afraid of her," Mr K said.

"We are," Pru said. "She kicked my arse once. Me! She threatened me in my bed once cos I stole Austria's Silesia."

The henchmen hesitated. They looked worried. One of them said to Mr K, "Sir? Perhaps you should come with us? She sounds crazy… And besides the top boss will destroy us all if we get this wrong."

Pru and Den exchanged glances. Who was this 'top boss'?

Mr K sighed, "Oh alright. If I want something done properly I'd better do it myself…" he jumped off his chair. "Besides she likes me and she won't kick my arse."

"Ja, she doesn't like us," Den said.

But Mr K and his henchmen were already out of the door.

"Wait! What about us? You can't leave us here!" Pru yelled.

"They didn't even leave us the beer and they promised!" Den said. He looked close to tears.

Pru would have hugged him but they were still tied up.

* * *

The Sock Shop, Heathrow Airport…

The teenage boy stood at the counter was still recovering from the events of the night before. He tried to get the echoes of 'kolkolkol' out of his head. Some men in dark suits, saying they were from the Security Services had questionned him and he'd been offered counselling with a specialist psychotherapist who dealt with 'civilians who'd had the misfortune to get embroiled in Nations' shenanigans or in Secret Service speak 'muggles'.

The boy, called 'Nigel' was just putting on his lanyard when three people skidded into the shop.

One, an American dressed as a Beefeater with a long furry tail sticking out of the seat of his trousers was skidding up and down looking for a 'fat Russkie', a Frenchman wearing just pink lurex shorts and who looked drunk began trying on ponchos. An Englishman with wild blond hair, who looked on the edge of reason, approached the counter.

"Excuse me, young man?" England asked 'Nigel', "I don't suppose you've seen our friend?"

"He's not our friend!" America called. He was rummaging around the back and holding up various socks of different hues.

"He's about this height," England raised his hand above his head, "Has blond hair, is quite big, speaks with a Russian accent…"

The boy went pale and began trembling, "He was here. He tried on all the socks. He got a bit aggressive…"

"Yes, that sounds like him," England said glumly. "What happened?"

"I called for security…"

"And then…?"

"Ponchos!" France suddenly yelled in ecstasy, breaking the mood. He had put on a lurid yellow poncho and was twirling around orgasmically. "This is gorgeous non? To protect me from ze horrid English rain." (England thought he looked like a burst boil.)

"Please don't ring for security!" England said desperately when he saw the boy reach for the panic button under the counter. "They're not dangerous, just idiots. Can you tell me what happened?"

"He got tasered but he just got angrier. It was really scary," the boy stammered. "I'm not sure what happened then, they all left…"

England nodded, "Come on, you blokes. We have to go and find Russia… I mean… er Ivan!"

"Superman socks! Hell yeah!" America slammed his Bank of America credit card onto the counter. "We'll take these and that poncho for my weird gay friend."

England tried to ignore America, "So he ran out of here with the security chasing him?" England asked the boy. He could just imagine the scenario.

The boy nodded, taking America's card and putting the purchases in a bag. France insisted on wearing his poncho. He looked ridiculous in England's eyes. Was this the latest in French haute couture?

England ran out of the shop, then ran back in, "Come on!" he yelled to America and France who were 'dallying'. "We have only 12 hours to save the earth from annihilation!"

'Nigel' took out his mobile phone and rang the number on the card the Security Services had given him. "Hello?" he asked. "Is that the office for Counsellor Von Edelstein? Can I book a session for psychotherapy?"

"He's all booked up!" the voice on the other end of the phone told him.

* * *

England hurried down an escalator, looked across to see America going down an 'up' escalator. He wondered vaguely where King Henry was. Their journey to the airport had been a bit of a nightmare in itself: an open-top tour bus and then a train with members of the public had been a lesson in not travelling with half-naked French Nations and excitable Americans. America had posed several times with tourists in his Beefeater costume, telling anyone who would listen that he was indeed a guard at the Tower of London and that it was 'awesome' when the Queen had knighted him. All tosh of course and England wondered if America had been smoking weed.

Thankfully, though, Alfred had not twigged yet that he had acquired a tail. England was going through his 'mind palace' (or actually two-bedroomed terraced house with back yard) for the spell that would get rid of said tail. He also wondered if he could surreptitiously get his wand out and do a spell that could summon Russia. He'd done it before but not in an airport. It might be easier. He had no idea at all where Russia could be.

He hurried up to an airport security guard, "Excuse me, I'm looking for my friend," he said.

"That one there?" the man asked.

Arthur turned round to see France who was dreamily eating from a Ben and Jerry's icecream tub. He wondered how on earth the Frenchman (and the American for that matter) could eat at a time like this. "Not that one. A big Russian. I think there was an altercation yesterday. A misunderstanding…" England said quickly.

"Oh yes?" the man looked at him suspiciously. Too suspiciously, England thought. He wondered if perhaps he'd said the wrong thing. His suspicions were proven correct when the man began speaking into his two-way radio.

England grabbed France and his icecream and pulled America away from a gaggle of Americans heading for the departure gate (Alfred was telling them how everything in London was old, broken and small and that he was only staying there because he was looking after his senile relative).

"What's the rush, Artie dude?" America asked England.

"Come on!" England said and for the second time in less than 24 hours they ran out of the airport, closely followed by airport security.

"I could be a decoy!" France said, waving his plastic spoon in the air.

England considered this. France was very good at putting off possible pursuers. He would rather not ask how. It probably involved shedding of clothes and drinking alcohol. But there was no need as England found himself together with France unceremoniously dumped into an airport baggage trolley by America and hurtled, literally, out of the concourse and at a breakneck speed flung onto the side of the Inner Ring Road that looped around the airport. This gave prospective travellers the unforgettable sight of a man in a Beefeater costume with a long furry tail pushing a luggage trolley containing a man with wild eyes screaming his head off and another individual wearing nothing but a yellow poncho and pink shorts, eating a Ben and Jerrys ice cream (flavour unidentified).

England's long and often boring life flashed before his eyes. He was about to die before he'd even had his morning cup of tea…


	47. Rawhide

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Fryingpangirl, Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, StormShadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 47 - Rawhide**

"You complete and utter berk!" England yelled at America. "Stop this bloody trolley!"

" _You_ are off your trolley," France said, licking his plastic spoon. How on earth the Frenchman seemed so calm when they were crashing along the Ring Road weaving in and out of traffic in a luggage trolley was beyond England. Also the trolley had a squeaky, faulty back wheel.

This squeaky wheel did not stop America. He was the hero. He only wished he'd had on his Superman outfit and not this "costume". However, they were getting lots of honks from car horns as they sped along. Probably many of the drivers thought that this was some kind of performance art.

Just as England thought they were going to die - an articulated lorry was speeding towards them and America was distracted by the shouts from an Uber driver who told them to 'fuck off out of the bloody way' or words to that effect, salvation came from an unlikely source…

"Yeehaw!" came a shout (and not from America).

The Alabama Gay Rodeo had come to town.

* * *

In Mr K's lair, Pru and Den were arguing…

"I want Schlewsig back!" Denmark yelled at Prussia.

"You can't have it!" Prussia shouted back.

"You're mean, you are."

"I won it. Besides you should talk to my bruder. He's Germany."

"He's mean as well. I used to be the King of Northern Europe…"

"Don't get all depressed on me, Den."

"It's not fair," Den said. It was rare that Den actually got upset. He was the cheeriest Nation. However, he was usually drunk or half drunk and without alcohol he could get positively dangerous.

"When we get out of here I'll buy you a crate of beer."

"I miss King Gorm…"

"Ja ja, we all miss our old kings… I miss Fritz…" Prussia thought Den's kings all had crazy names.

"And Olaf…"

"Ja ja, but if they'd all been called Frederick they would have been more awesome!" Pru said out loud.

"I had a few King Fredericks," Den said.

"Ja, but they were all rubbish," Pru told him confidently.

"Do you know where Russia is?" Den said to change the subject.

"Ja, between the frozen north and China," Pru said. It was an old joke.

"Nah, I mean fat dude Russkie," Den said, in a whisper.

"Nope, do you?"

"We could save the world, dude. If we find him. We could be… heroes!"

"Just for one day."

"That would make an epic song."

"Ja."

Silence.

"Vodka bar."

"Possibly."

"Imperial War Museum."

"Doubt it. Dude goes nuts when he remembers the war."

"I blame you for that."

"Ja." Prussia said and went quiet.

"What do you usually do when you come to London?" Den asked. "He'll probably do the opposite."

"Bomb it."

"No I mean in peace-time."

"Set up a crappy taxi service with my friend."

"No, I mean if you hadn't been kicked out by your brother."

"I didn't get kicked out. I left," Pru said.

Den thought Pru was kidding himself. He had distinctly heard Germany shouting at Pru as they'd sped down the driveway in that stolen postal delivery van (which ended up sunk in the Kiel canal - but that was a story for another day), "…And don't come back until you've got a proper job and can pay me back!"

Den had shrugged. He was always being told to get a job by Finland, Sweden and Norway. The three Nordic Nations frequently ganged up on him. Obviously, stealing Finland's Santa suit and being employed as a stripper in bars was not what the other Nations had had in mind. Den had been disappointed in this. Of course, 'Icy', the other Nordic Nation, wisely kept out of the way.

"They need to ring Lithuania. He knows fat Russkie better than all of us," Pru said wisely.

"I think I've just seen a dragon."

"You mean Mr Ping's here?"

"Ja, swimming past the window."

"Are we underwater?"

"Ja, didn't you notice?"

Pru thought about it. He was a bit miffed that Den had noticed something he had not. "Course I did. I'm not stupid."

"Mr Kumajiro's clever isn't he? Building all this?" Den said.

"Did he proper build it though?"

"Do you think he didn't?" Den looked disappointed.

"Don't be daft, polar bears can't build! They don't have thumbs!"

"Yeah but…how did he get this cool place?"

"Perhaps it was already here?" Pru said, his brain working hard.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…. He stole it from another arch-villain!"

"You mean like… that Blowfield person in the James Bond movies?" Den said, wide-eyed.

"Blofeld. Yes…"

"But that's not real… although…"

"He said he had a top boss didn't he?" Pru said.

"Ja. SLAPARSE! They give me the creeps."

"Or suppose it goes all the way to the top…?"

"Like… Oh my God!" Den's eyes widened. His hair on end.

"Ja, Den…" Pru was nodding as he realised his friend had made the connection.

"Britain in Bloom!" Den said in hushed tones. "They are ruthless."

Pru nodded.

* * *

While Pru and Den connected the dots and came up with something very very odd (but almost right), England found himself surrounded by a stampede of horses.

"What the bloody hell?" he exclaimed as they were corralled as if they were in a Western movie.

"This is great!" America yelled.

"I love cowboys!" France said, licking the ice cream from his plastic spoon in the most salacious manner possible.

"Howdy there pardners!" one of the 'cowboys' yelled. "Do you guys need a hand there?"

"Oh oui!" France said, flinging himself off the trolley and heading towards the speaker.

"Oh bloody hell…" England said. "No we don't. We're fine!" he called back.

They weren't 'fine' in any sense of the word. They were stuck in the middle of the Northern Ring Road going onto the main dual carriageway on a luggage trolley with a squeaky left back wheel and a randy Frenchman with a 44 tonne articulated lorry bearing down on them. 'Fine' was not really a term England should have used and later he would regret it.

"What bloody fool just said howdy?" England asked.

"It's my main homie, Canadia!" America yelled joyously.

"Yes it would be wouldn't it…?"

"Well hello zere," France was saying, looking up adoringly at one cowboy. "Zat is a very big gun you have zere."

"Who are these bloody people?"

"Alabama gay rodeo riders. We've been marching for the rights of gay rodeo riders everywhere!" One of them said.

"We saw them before, you remember Artie?" America said.

"How could I forget?" France breathed.

"I would imagine that gay rodeo riders wouldn't need that many rights." England said.

There was awkward silence. A very large man in a rainbow suede jacket, carrying a large whip, jumped down from his horse and loomed over the grumpy Englishman, "What?"

"What I meant to say is that being such a minority you have every right to march or parade… hang on why were you marching in London anyway? Why not march in bloody Alabama?" England stammered.

This was not going well and it was only by France's quick thinking and extreme gayness that things did not go ill for our English hero.

"Ah you look so strong on your horse. I love your whip!" France swooned.

"Bloody hell…"

"Yeah cool…" America said. "But let's get going, dudes, before the bad guys come and get us!"

"I agree with Alfred here," England said.

But France was climbing on a horse. "Yahoo!" he yelled. In his yellow poncho and pink shorts, he looked utterly ridiculous. He did not care.

"Okay, anyone need a ride?" Canada asked.

"Where are you off to?" England replied. He was a competent horseman but preferred English horses and not these foreign palamino creatures that seemed to be very skittish, he also preferred to be the one holding the reigns.

"Well, we were off to the airport and back to the States. Our horses need to go to animal control and they're shipped back in special…" Canada began to say but was cut off by England.

"That's no good, we just came from there. We escaped Mr Kumajiro and… hey! Mr Kumajiro's your pet! Why don't you bloody sort out that villainous…"

"Woah there! Mr Kumajiro is not my pet! He's more my…" Canada tried to think. He was about to say 'overlord'.

By now they had trotted off down the road, horns honking at them - whether in solidarity of gay rights or because they were holding up the traffic is actually unknown. France was sat on a horse with a large man in leather who was waving a rainbow flag and America was giving a horse some multi-coloured highly sugared confectionary.

"Listen, he's trying to start a nuclear war," England said to Canada. "He held us in his lair. Russia has gone missing and if he's not found by midnight tonight, President Putin is going to launch the nuclear warheads right at us!"

Canada looked worried - his default expression. "I don't know what I can do. He's always done his own thing. He wants to stop global warming…"

"My Prime Minister is too busy trying to avert a war with Spain, thanks to my idiot brother…"

"Yes, I understand about idiot brothers," Canada said and then suddenly yelled, "Alfred! Stop giving Hercules smarties!" He then said to England, "Does he know he has a tail?"

England shook his head, "I'd prefer if you didn't tell him…. So now we have this situation. I have no idea why Mr Kumajiro wants the key to my allotment shed."

Canada shrugged. "Well I have no idea how to help you. Mr Kumajiro hasn't been the same since he didn't get on American Idol."

They were now clip-clopping down the road back to the airport. England walked beside Canada's horse. "Do you know where Russia might be?" he asked hopefully.

"Vodka bar? Erm…" Canada thought hard. "Where did you leave him last? That's what I do when I've lost something I go back to where I last saw the object…"

"Yes, we've done all that."

"Ring Lithuania?"

England looked at him with new respect. "Of course! France! Let me borrow your phone. Those thugs have got mine!"

England was hit on the head by a phone with a diamante French flag on the back. He cringed. He should have caught that. He would never get into the England Cricket Team. "Bloody hell…"

"Swearing is not the answer," America said. Probably the most ridiculous thing ever said.

"Toris… Toris…" England said to himself, searching through the contacts. None of them made sense. They were all filthy. England remembered what France had done to his own contact list on his 'me-phone' or whatever it was bloody called. "France, you tart! What name do you have Lithuania under?" England did not even attempt to say Toris' surname.

"Sex God!" France yelled. "Of course it is! What else would it be?"

England shook his head and pressed the button to make the call. He thought briefly about deleting various contacts - 'Butts & Buns' he was sure was an unsavoury establishment and then remembering with distaste that France was actually an employee of them and that to get rid of France he needed to have money and hence a job - however disagreeable.

"Hello? Lithuania?"

"France?" Lithuania answered and without waiting for an answer went into a tirade, "I'm not doing it again. I refuse to go along with you on these wild parties. I still haven't got that pink glitter out of my hair. I really hope Russia doesn't see it. And Pol says if you get me drunk again and make me have another rose tattoo he will skewer you with his sword."

"I understand, Lithuania. He's a complete dickhead isn't he?"

"Oh, Mr England?" Lithuania's voice changed quickly.

"Yes, me…"

"Why do you have France's phone?"

"It's a long story… Look…"

"He hasn't taken you partying has he? Honestly, don't for heaven's sake go with him to the Montmartre district."

England shuddered, "I'm hardly likely to…"

"And tell him Pol will fillet him with his sword if he ever takes me to the Moulin Rouge again."

England straightened his tie and blushed. "Listen…I wondered if…"

"…And don't go on a boat with him. I once ended up in Lima wearing nothing but a pink tutu and a cowboy hat," Lithuania continued, oblivious to England. He seemed on a roll. "…Come avec moi on zis river boat cruise Lithuania, you will love eet, Lithuania…" Lithuania imitated France in a weird French accent.

England felt a lot of sympathy for the poor fellow Nation. Perhaps they could set up a support group for nations who have had their lives ruined by France? "Lima is in Peru," England said lamely.

"I know that!" Lithuania yelled.

"Anyway… I'm sorry about all that," England said through gritted teeth as he looked at France who was obliviously flirting with a gay rodeo rider. "He's ruined my life as well. We should swap notes. But at the moment we need to find Russia."

There was a gulp at the other end of the phone. "Russia? Why? Why would you want to do that?"

"He was staying with me…"

"Really?"

"Listen, I don't have time to explain but if we don't find him then President Putin is going to go to war with me. I'm already at war with Spain."

"Really?"

"Oh my God Lithuania! Can you just tell me where you think he might be?"

"Have you tried the zoo? He likes looking at the animals."

"The zoo!" England yelled at America.

"Yep! On it like a bonnet!" America yelled. "Homie!" he whistled at his brother, "Can you and your gay friends, hey I'm not judging, take us to the zoo?"

* * *

London Hungarian Embassy

Hungary was sat quietly, in her satin dressing gown, sipping her coffee, her crossbow propped up next to her, flipping through 'Arrows' magazine - a publication for aspiring archers (it had a picture of a determined-looking young woman on the front pulling back a bow string).

The door opened and Poland came in on a Segway, wearing a red dragon kimono, drinking a pina colada. "Hey Liz sweetie! You're not gonna believe this!"

Behind him in the doorway, flanked by his two henchmen was a harassed looking polar bear.

* * *

Elsewhere in London…

Russia leaned back in his hammock. He was having a lovely day. He'd had a bit of a problem at first when some strange men had tranquilised him and taken him from that nice sleeping place in the Airport (actually Animal Control) and then he'd woken up in a cage. That wasn't nice. He wasn't impressed with London hospitality so far. He'd had problems getting in the hammock at first. It had taken half a dozen attempts but he'd managed it. Now he was relaxing with his battered paperback copy of Dostoevsky and bottle of vodka.

In a corner, two large brown bears huddled - terrified of their new cage-mate.

On a plaque outside the curator was amending the notice to say 'New Addition - Vanya the Russian Eurasian brown bear'.

Vanya himself, popped another berry into his mouth and ignored the gawping children. He assumed that this was normal in English gardens. Although this wasn't how he remembered Arthur's garden, not that he'd taken a lot of notice. There was no angry dead king next door. He wondered vaguely what time Coronation Street was on.

 **To be continued...**


	48. 99 Red Balloons

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics, Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, StormShadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving lessons**

 **Chapter 48 - 99 Red Balloons**

"He's so bloody cute!" Hungary was hugging the arch-villain Mr Kumajiro.

"I am not cute I am a super villain! You have no idea the power I have!" Mr Kumajiro said, trying to get out of the Hungarian woman's arms. "Put me down!"

"Pol what do you think? Isn't he bloody cute?"

"He's apparently been a naughty bear, Liz."

"Really?"

"According to Scotland, who told Italy, who told Germany who told Austria who told me to tell you, that he'd kept England, America, Prussia and Denmark in a cell somewhere! And they're trying to find Russia, who's missing…"

"Good."

"Good that he's missing or good that he kept those fools in a cell?"

"Both really."

"Stop talking, both of you!" Mr K yelled "And stop hugging me!"

Hungary ignored him, "So what's the problem with Russia missing and did England really declare war on Spain?"

"Well Bela just went ballistic, literally. And she's going to get President Putin, who I would really love to give a style makeover by the way, to attack Britain!" Pol said.

Hungary actually looked up at this. "Would you really give Putin a makeover?"

"You imbeciles!" Mr K yelled jumping off Hungary's lap, "Russia's nuclear warhead targeting system has been hacked and its prime target is England's allotment shed! I need the key to that shed."

Hungary looked at him, "When did you get so pissy? You used to be so cute."

"Canada has held me back."

"So why have you come to us?"

"The key, Miss Hungary, hand it over or you will regret it."

Hungary fell about laughing. Pol swigged the rest of his cocktail and laughed.

"Oh hon, he's so funny. Can we keep him?"

"I am serious! You have no idea of the people behind me! If I don't get that key…" the polar bear cub said leaving the threat hanging.

"You don't mean…?"

Mr K nodded.

"Not the Britain in Bloom organisation?" Hungary said with a gasp.

"I was thinking the Antiques Roadshow." Poland said.

Mr K turned to his henchmen but they had disappeared.

"Your goons have been Pol'd, sweetie," Pol told him.

* * *

"Ok here we are. The zoo," England said getting off the horse. "France for gods sake put that cowboy down. Alfred, no you can't change into a cowboy outfit. We don't have bloody time. We have to find Russia."

"Awww man. This is getting boring."

"I agree avec ze silly boy. We could party!" France whined.

"Boring? As in Armageddon is boring? Will you all feel like that when warheads are raining down on us?"

"North Korea and his cartoon weapons can't reach us here. Calm yo self." America said. He knew England hated the word 'yo'.

"You're a bloody idiot, it's not North Korea and his goons we have to worry about, it's Putin and his goons. I mean missiles."

"Jeez… anyway what about my main dudes, Pru and Den? Shouldn't we go rescue them?"

In all this time, Canada was trying to get their attention, "Erm we have to go now, bye then." Nobody noticed, France however ran after the procession of gay rodeo riders and their horses in his rain poncho and pink shorts.

"Come back, Tarquin!" The lovestruck Frenchman yelled.

England doubted that the big buff rodeo rider was actually called Tarquin at all.

"Right blokes let's go in and see if we can find Russia. This is our best clue."

But America had already headed into the zoo, "Aww man they have a monkey house…!" he yelled excitedly.

"You'll be right at home then," England sighed.

* * *

Mr K was not happy. His 'goons' were having makeovers.

Poland grinned at the arch villain, "Sweetie, everyone should have acrylic nails," he told Mr K.

Just off the reception area of the Hungarian Embassy, the 'goons', as Pol called them, were strapped into hairdressers chairs and were having their nails done, facials and their hair coloured. Perhaps against their will.

"So tell us what's so important about England's allotment shed, Mr Kumajiro?" Hungary asked.

"Yes and why do you want a nuclear war?" Poland asked.

They both leaned over him.

Mr K straightened his tie. "I'm telling you nothing! Only this…"

"Here we go…" Pol said, standing back, his arms crossed.

"…There are forces at work far darker than me…"

"Oh give over!" Hungary laughed.

The sound of a mobile phone playing 'Born This Way' interrupted them.

"Just a moment, honey," Poland said and pressed a button. "Hi sweetie! Liet! Where are you? Vilnius? How boring! Really? Yes we heard. So America, England and France are going to save the world? Oh my God! You are so funny!" Pol giggled. Lithuania was obviously reporting England's strange and desperate phone call.

"No they're not. They are locked up!" Mr Kumajiro said.

Pol looked at the diminutive villain, "Afraid not. They got out. In the name of Judy Garland, I don't know how." Pol then realised that perhaps he should not have told Mr K that they'd escaped. But shrugged instead. "Okay Liet honey, I have to go. Got a world to save! Mwah mwah!" he kissed the receiver loudly and raised an eyebrow at Hungary.

* * *

"Can't you just use your magic, mon cher, to bring Russia back? Accio Russia or something?" France asked England as they dashed around the zoo, passing a suspicious looking small boy selling balloons three times. France was exhausted. He'd had no lunch and he hadn't fixed his hair which he was sure was a mess.

England glared at him, "Don't be silly, Francis. Of course… Actually…"

They'd been dashing round and round the zoo for two hours, had already lost America, who had gone off to look at the monkeys, clutching his candy floss (which England hated - he was sure America would have a sugar high and then a 'low' later) and had been followed by children staring at his tail. America still didn't realise he had a tail…

"Quick behind these loos," England whispered, pulling France with him.

"Oh lala! Mon cher, I knew you cared for me non?" France said, swooning.

"Get off me, you pervert!" England said, taking out his wand. "I'm going to try what you said. Summon Russia. I've done it before. Then we can ring Belarus, tell her we've got her brother, I can sort out this bloody war with Spain and I can go home in time for Gardeners World!"

France pulled a face. The vagaries of the English were beyond him. "Eet eez disgusting, ze porn zat you watch…"

"It's a bloody programme about gardening! Anyway, shut up you mad idiot!" England yelled. "Accio Russia!" he shouted, waving his wand in the air.

Nothing happened.

France looked bored and picked at his fingernails. "We should find ze boy, mon cher."

"Dad England?" came a familiar voice.

"Oh no, not him…"

The small boy, selling balloons, tapped him on the shoulder. "Jerk Dad England, what yer doin'?"

"Why aren't you at bloody school?"

"School trip," Sealand said. Too smoothly, England thought.

"Really? All the way from Sweden?"

"I live in Finland at the moment. Keep up."

"Why are you selling balloons?"

"Gotta make money somehow. You don't give me any pocket money."

"Tut tut, you are a terrible parent," France said.

"Hey! I just bought a balloon off some kid but it's already burst!" America yelled, skidding around the corner.

"It was only a quid!" Sealand protested.

"Give him his money back," England said.

"I won't! He's got more money than me anyway!"

"We don't have time for this," England said. "Accio Russia!" England tried again. Nothing happened. Again.

"That Harry Potter rubbish won't work without a proper wand, Artie," America said, as if he knew what he was talking about. He said this as he tried to steal another balloon from Sealand.

"Where have you lot been anyway?" Sealand asked nonchalantly, holding his balloons out of America's way.

"We were captured by bad dudes," America told him. "We're now trying to save the world. I need to buy more candy floss. I also could do with a coke." He wandered off, dragging his string with a flat balloon. It was perhaps the saddest thing France had seen all day, or all morning - for a while at least.

This changed when something large flumped next to them and Pru and Den suddenly jumped almost on top of them.

"Ace! Dragon! Wait… is that the dragon that ate my cake?" Sealand asked.

"Yes, it is…" England said. "Ah, Gilbert, Matthias, I'm glad you two are here," (He wasn't) "You can help us find Russia." (They wouldn't.) "And then I might just buy you a pint as a reward." (He wouldn't.)

"Uncle Den…" Sealand said, circling Denmark as if he was his arch enemy. "We meet again."

"Yo kid! Did yer do your homework?"

"Haven't got any!"

"He's on a school trip," England said. "Right, blokes. We have more feet on the ground to find Russia, if he is here that is…"

"School trip? You don't have a school trip today! Besides, you've been banned from school trips after that incident in the Viking Museum at Oslo. Although to be honest, who goes to Oslo apart from Norge, I don't know," Den said.

England side-stepped the large 20 foot green dragon now blocking their way. Non-Nations, i.e. humans, looked increasingly confused as they found themselves bumping into an invisible barrier.

"Never mind all that, we need to find Russia!" England called behind him.

"He doesn't even care how we escaped, does he, Den?" Pru said.

Den shook his head, but glared at Sealand. "I dunno why you're here but I think it's something to do with that polar bear."

Pru launched into a long monologue about how they escaped, "Mr Ping saved us! He likes me, but doesn't like Den. I think he sees me as an alpha male. He crashed through the massive window and we got a bit wet." (They were very wet.) "I didn't know dragons were such good swimmers, did you Den? Anyway we jumped on board and he swam through that crappy river Thames up here. We saw you lot from 100 foot up in the air. Well we saw that poncy France in his pink shorts. In fact I bet them shorts could be seen from space. Actually, Den could smell America's candy floss." (Den was nodding at this.) "So we thought we'd come down and have a look."

But England wasn't listening. He had run into a gift shop and was trying to negotiate with the shopkeeper there.

"Good idea, can you buy me a cuddly lion?" America asked, coming up behind him.

England ignored him - and France - who was trying on hats and sunglasses. It seemed only he was interested in saving the world.

"Excuse me, do you have any chalk?"

"If it's not on the shelves then no," the woman replied. She looked as if she was sucking a lemon. She glared at France, "Is he with you?"

"Kind of. I'm sorry but do you have any kind of marker pen or something that can be sprayed onto a pavement," England asked. "This is urgent."

"Are you a vandal? We've had problems before with people vandalising our seats."

"No, my good woman," England said, drawing himself up to his full height… "I need to draw a pentagram on the floor in washable chalk to summon a demon."

She stared at him.

"Do you think these sunglasses suit me, mon cher?" France called from across the shop.

England ignored the Frenchman, "This is a case of national emergency," he told the woman.

She raised an eyebrow.

Suddenly, King Henry appeared beside England, "Chalk, Arthur!" he said and dissipated again. Clearly the dead king had got used to appearing and disappearing.

The woman fainted.

England ran out and began drawing a pentagram on the pavement.

"You can't just draw stuff on there," a security man said, standing next to England. "I suggest you put down the chalk and back away before I call the police. I know your sort."

England was about to protest but Alfred suddenly appeared from nowhere (still holding his candy floss) or probably from the gift shop and took the man down with a rugby tackle. "Do it, Artie!" Alfred yelled melodramatically. "Save the world! I'll watch your back."

England carried on but was then interrupted by a gathering crowd who were muttering:

"What's he doing?"

"I don't know. Is it some kind of performance art?"

"What's that strange man in the pink shorts doing?"

"Mummy, I'm scared."

England tried to ignore them all. It was difficult though.

"Draw man, draw!" America yelled dramatically.

England finally finished and stood in the middle of the pentagram, a cool wind blew through his already unruly hair. He considered calling up a cup of tea and a bourbon cream biscuit but there were more important considerations.

He raised his wand.

"Is this a publicity stunt for that new Harry Potter book?" someone yelled.

England shut everyone out. He raised his wand (he could really have done with wearing his cloak and his hat but needs must…) and began to chant, "Egbert, Aethelwulf, Aethelbald, Aethelbert…" England paused. He'd forgotten the next king in line and so changed tack. (Often calling up old kings enhanced his powers.) He panicked then with everyone watching him, "Erm, Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble, Grub. In the name of Camberwick Green, Trumpton, Chigley, I call on you, un-named demon from the frozen lands of the north!" he thrust his wand in the air and hoped for the best.

There was a giggle (probably from France) and then a hushed silence as indeed, a blue flame ejected from the wand into the air.

Even America, still sat on the security guard, looked impressed.

England stepped back as the air grew cold and then colder still. The sky above him darkened and briefly the sun was eclipsed. His mind had been on Russia so surely the Russian Nation should appear? England was unsure, he'd never done this spell while sober…

"Is this it? The end of the world?" Den asked him, handing him a beer.

England wondered briefly where Den had acquired beer from - here in a zoo, but then took it anyway.

"I've always loved you," Pru said to Den, looking up at the sky as lightning flashed and black clouds roiled.

"Yeah me too," Den muttered - whether he meant he loved him back or himself is not clear.

Sealand released his ninety-nine balloons - all red - into the sky. "Won't need these now," he said gloomily. "Jerk Dad England has set off the Apocalpyse. Well done!" he turned to Den, "I'll tell Mum Fin and Dad Swe it was your fault."

"Oh dear…" England said as a figure began to emerge from the cold mist…

To be continued…

 **Author's Notes:**

 **Obviously Pugh Pugh etc is from that very old children's UK TV series Trumpton**

 **Egbert, Aethelwulf etc are old English kings**


	49. Tears of a Clown

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Fryingpangirl,** Tonhalszendvics, **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 49 Tears of a Clown**

"Did you miss me?" Came a syrupy sweet voice.

"Oh no…" England let go of hugging France. He would normally never ever hug France but of course he'd thought that he'd somehow summoned up some horrendous demon from hell and… oh yes, he had.

"Oh mon cher! You do love me!" France purred.

"No I bloody don't!"

"Enough of this stupidity!" Belarus said imperiously. She stepped forward. "Where is my brother?"

Pru, who had jumped into Den's arms when he thought it was the end of the world, jumped down and straightened his jacket. "Oh man! It's bloody Princess Crazy!"

Den muttered to him, "Shush she can hear you…"

Belarus glared at them. Her black cloak swirled around her. Knives glinted at her waist. She was also carrying a red balloon. England thought a demon from hell would have been far less intimidating.

"Where is my brother?" Belarus repeated.

"Hello dear," England said hesitatingly. Was he still married to her? He couldn't remember if the marriage was even legal or not. He hoped not.

Belarus glared at him, "I told you to find my brother," she said.

"Yes I know…"

"What have you been doing?" She asked. She looked around, her eyes skimming over France stood in a poncho wearing pink lurex shorts, America sat on the floor with a great furry tail, Pru and Den (who she particularly snarled at), looking at her with glazed eyes.

"He's been buying me sunglasses," France replied.

England nudged him, hoping he'd shut up.

"And we escaped from a nutty polar bear," America piped up, standing up. "With Artie's magic."

"Is that why you have a tail?" Belarus observed.

"What?" America leapt round and round - like a dog chasing his tail - as he tried to catch his tail.

"Right…" England said. "Well we know your brother is here." (They didn't) "So we'll leave you to that. Bye then!" He said and began to edge away.

"Run for it, England," Prussia said to him and before England could say anything, the Prussian had whistled for Mr Ping and he and and Den were off. "See yer later, losers!" He shouted down at them as they soared over the zoo on the back of the dragon.

"Bloody hell…"

"So where is he?" Belarus asked, twirling a knife in her hand.

"He went in the Sock Shop and tried on all the socks," America told her, still chasing his tail.

Belarus pointed a knife at the American, "He does things like that. Who are you to judge?"

America stopped and shrugged. Indeed, there was nothing to say to that.

"Anyway, why are you looking for him here?" She added.

"That's a very good question, dear," England said.

"Don't call me that."

"I rang Lithuania and he said…" England began.

"He's an idiot." Belarus said.

"He didn't say that," America piped up.

She ignored him.

"He said that Russia, your brother, likes zoos," England explained.

"I know that," Belarus said.

"Well then." England said and began backing away.

"Ze person you need to speak to is Monsieur Kumajiro, Mademoiselle Belarus. Ee is evil, mon cher."

"Really? Why?"

England decided to leave it to the pink lurex-attired Frenchman to explain and while Belarus was listening to France's explanation which seemed to be one long drug-addled diatribe, England crept away.

"I was a hero!" France told Belarus, who arched an eyebrow. "And in ze cell avec Angleterre… ah mon cher… ze Tower of London. Who would have thought it would be so romantic…" (France forgot to mention that England had almost throttled him) "Ze silly American turned up avec ze silly Beefeater costume. And my beautiful friends Gilbert and Matthias…" (Belarus shuddered. She didn't like either Pru or Den.) "They were also zere. And zen ze polar bear. You have no idea how evil he is… He is behind it all… But I saved Angleterre… I zink. I cannot remember…" France trailed off, his eyes glazed over. "Ah oui, I woke up to find myself in a locked car avec some very large men in suits…" France smiled. He then went on to tell anyone who was listening (a large crowd actually) about the 'party' he had held in the back of Mr Kumajiro's motor vehicle with Mr K's bodyguards. Some people hurried away, their hands over their children's ears.

"Dad England, what yer doing?" Sealand asked, running after England.

"Trying to save the world!" England replied.

"What did yer do to Jerk America?"

"I…er… it was my wand…"

"God, you're a rubbish dad."

"It wasn't my fault! At least he's not purple like last time."

"What did yer do to Russia?"

"Nothing! I didn't do anything to Russia!" England skidded to a stop and turned to face his son. "And why aren't you at school?"

"School trip," Sealand explained. Again. Far too glibly. "Then why is he in the bear enclosure?"

England's eyes went wide. "What?!"

"Bear enclosure. He's in the bear enclosure. With a pair of brown bears."

"What's he doing there?"

"A crossword, the last time I looked."

England stared at him and then hurried on. He grabbed a passing man, not really looking at the person, "Excuse me, where's the bear enclosure?"

The man was dressed as a clown, "Down there… but do you happen to know where…?" But England screamed and ran off.

"Dad is scared of clowns," Sealand explained to the man.

"I only wanted to know where the Alabama gay rodeo riders had gone. I wanted to join them." The clown said sadly.

"Oh mon dieu!" France said, sauntering around the corner as if he had all the time in the world and the world wasn't about the end. As if Belarus wasn't charging around the zoo looking to fillet someone. As if America wasn't having an existential crisis about his tail. As if there wasn't a clown looking to join a gay rodeo riders club.

"I apologise. Mon ami is afraid of clowns," France said smoothly, putting his arm around the clown's shoulders. Plastic orange hair and make-up notwithstanding, the man was good-looking, France thought.

"Ew…" Sealand said and hurried after England. Not to help him. Just to troll him.

"He does not understand love such as ours," France said to the clown, who edged away.

* * *

The Hungarian Embassy...

"You have no idea what you're doing! You'll pay for this!" Mr Kumajiro shouted as he was bundled up and handcuffed. He reserved most of his ire for Poland. "You are a monster!" he shouted at the Pole. "Those men were the elite of the elite. I recruited them from the SAS, from Navy Seals and look what you've done to them!" Mr Kumajiro was right. His guards were comparing false nails and Pol had 'helped them with their contouring'.

"Did you have England's allotment key, honey?" Poland asked Hungary in a bored manner as a combination of the Hungarian Embassy security staff and the London Metropolitan Police loaded Mr K into the police car.

"No, do you?"

"I wonder what's under there? And why do they need the key? Wasn't Prussia and Denmark living there?"

Hungary nodded. She was getting on her fighting gear. Cargo trousers, leather jacket, crossbow slung over her shoulder, boots on, she grinned at Poland, "Time to kick ass," she said.

Poland nodded. "Let's go, honey and see what's going on…"

They had no idea whose ass they were going to kick but that didn't matter.

They were saluted as they left the Embassy, "Ma'am, Sir," the police nodded to them. (Which one was Sir and which was Ma'am is unclear.)

* * *

Back at the zoo...

America was, in his words, 'Fred Flinstoning outta there'. He would say later that he was leading Belarus away from England. But as it happened, he wasn't. It was just coincidence that Belarus chased him as he ran, with his tail in his hand (he'd finally caught it) away from France and the scary clown. (Not that America was afraid of clowns.)

"Where is my brother?" Belarus yelled. A knife went whizzing past America's head.

"I don't know! Do you know how I can get rid of this tail?" America shouted behind him and ducked again as a knife lodged into the wall behind him.

A few hundred yards away…

"Where's the bear enclosure?" England asked a zoo employee, who was not dressed as a clown.

"Just past the tiger enclosure," the man said.

"Where's the tiger enclosure? England asked, grabbing the man by the collar.

"Down there… where's our zoo clown? And.. are you anything to do with the knife assailant on the premises?"

"Nope, not all," England replied.

"Yes, he is, it's all his fault," Sealand said, running up. "He's useless. I would arrest him."

"Shut up, Peter!" England ran on. "Tiger enclosure… bear enclosure… is that polar bear or… ". Here England stopped and had a sudden revelation. "Polar bear?"

"Mr Kumajiro I expect," Sealand said, catching up with England. "God, you're so useless."

England frowned. The boy seemed to know an awful lot. "You had something to do with this!" England turned on him. "You're in on all this. Does Mr Kumajiro have a headquarters here as well?"

"I don't know anything." Sealand said. "I was just selling balloons."

England had another thought - something someone had said about Russia. "Russia is afraid of balloons! You're here to keep an eye on him! You're his jailer!"

"No way!" Sealand glared at him. "I'm no jailer…Anyway Mr Kumajiro said if I was to stand around with some balloons he'd give me Ellesemere Island."

"He can't do that! This is all about land isn't it? He's doing all this to start a nuclear war which leads to a nuclear winter and global cooling just to make everything like the bloody Arctic!"

"I dunno about that, Dad."

"You greedy little so and so. You don't bloody care, do you? Land land land, that's all you want."

"Land is good, Dad. It's alright for you lot. But I don't have any. You try living on a rusty fort in the middle of the North Sea."

England winced at this. He still felt a little guilty about that. "Well, we'd better go find Russia and see if we can sort out all this."

* * *

Deep in the nuclear bunker at Buckingham Palace, an entity underneath a filthy tartan blanket stirred. Surrounded by empty Scotch bottles and cans of Irn Bru, Hamish, England's older brother (by a few centuries the Scot would proudly say - whether this was true nobody knows), the Nation formerly known as Alba (or Kingdom of the Picts as he often told people) groaned.

"Whut's goin' on?" he said, his ginger hair sticking up as if he'd been electrocuted. "King Malcolm?" he asked, looking round. "That wuz some party last night."

But King Malcolm had gone. Which was one good thing. There was an empty tea trolley, a plate with broken bourbon cream biscuits (England would be horrified). The only sign of life was a fuzzy TV screen with a gabbling Spaniard shouting into the void.

"Oh aye! Tony! How are ye?" Scotland said, staring with red-rimmed eyes at the Spaniard.

"How am I? Como estoy? You are asking me this? You declared war on me!" Spain broke into a long diatribe in Spanish.

"Woah there, boy," Scotland said, holding up a hand. He had the most ginormous hangover.

Spain stopped and winced. "I am probably older than you! You call me a boy!" He looked absolutely appalled. As well he might. "Gibraltar is very anxious. He is caught between us. Where is Arthur?"

"Yer mean Arthur Kirkland?"

"Si, of course I mean Arthur Kirkland."

"Yer mean my brother Arthur?"

"Si of course…" Spain rubbed his dark hair, he was also holding an uneaten tomato. Behind him, the Spanish Prime Minister was looking anxious. He said something about the 'Armada' which did not go unnoticed by Scotland.

"Oh aye! Armada. Do ye think that Arthur would be more lenient to ye than me?" He said. "Don't forget it wasn't me who was the pirate."

"Arthur did not declare war on me!" Spain yelled back at Scotland.

"Aye well, I'm a bit sorry about that. But yer've got to admit, things can be confusing."

"Que?"

"What?"

"What are you talking about? Do you want peace?"

"A piece of what?"

Suddenly the door burst open and a variety of people fell in through the doorway.

"Honestly sweeties, get off me! I know I'm irresistible but you don't have to paw me!" It was Poland, with around six security men piled on top of him.

Hungary jumped over them and aimed her crossbow at Scotland. "What have you done, Scotland?"

"Do ye know? I don't rightly know." He admitted, blinking at the cold harsh light flooding through the doorway.

There was a banging on the floor above.

"Somebody needs to stop shouting - we're keeping Her Majesty the Queen from watching the football," one of the security men said.

"Did you or did you not declare war on Tony here?" Hungary said, the point of an arrow resting on Scotland's chest.

"I can't remember," Scotland said and then added after seeing their disbelieving faces, "You don't understand. You've never mixed Irn Bru and whisky!"

"We're getting nowhere. We need to sort out President Putin (who totally needs a makeover) declaring war on everyone if that big fashion-restricted loon Braginski doesn't turn up." Poland said with his hands on his hips.

"Erm Ma'am?" One of the security men addressed Poland. "Who are you?"

"Did you hear that, Liz? Who am I indeed?"

"I know Pol." Hungary said. She turned to the security man, "We're here to sort things out. Check your Scotland Yard and Special Branch! We apprehended the most notorious master criminal!" Hungary said - most disgruntled.

"Yer mean Italy? Because that last pizza I had from him was criminal. Hardly any haggis on it." Scotland said, proving again how utterly mad he was.

"Who has haggis on a pizza?" Poland asked.

"I do. And I wanted to make it a law. I made young Italy cry."

"We're getting nowhere Pol," Hungary said.

No-one seemed to take any notice of Spain or his prime minister. "So are we okay now and we're not going to get bombed?" Spain asked.

"Yes, yes" Hungary said. As if she were in charge. "I'll inform England's prime minister it's all sorted," Hungary said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"I'll come with you honey, Prime Minister May really needs her roots doing," Poland said.

Spain looked so happy he burst into tears (probably not about the English prime minister's roots), hugged his bewildered looking prime minister and then declared he was going to make a huge plate of paella to celebrate.

But nobody was listening, someone had switched off the screen.

* * *

Back at the zoo, England was thankfully oblivious to all the madness going on without him - the possibility of his boss getting a hairdo by Poland or the Queen's viewing pleasure being disturbed by the combined noise of Poland, Hungary and his brother - England had finally found the bear enclosure.

"Excuse me," he asked a zookeeper (who was not dressed as a clown), "Could I possibly have a word with one of your bears? It won't take a moment."

"What?"

"I'm not trying to sell anything," England said quickly.

The man stared at him, "Are you anything to do with us having to call the Police?" The man asked, his walkie-talkie buzzing angrily.

"No no no… not at all. Nothing to do with me. Or him," England nodded at Sealand. "We don't know anything."

"Shut up, Dad." Sealand said. "Hey look! It's Russia. I mean er…" Sealand hurriedly covered up his error as he looked at the human, "Er I mean it's Ivan! Hey Ivan Braginski!" He shouted.

The large 'bear' swinging in the hammock promptly fell out of said hammock, dropping its newspaper and bag of nuts.

"Where did you get erm.." Here England read the notice, "… Vanya from?"

"He arrived from Russia this morning," the zookeeper said.

"Don't tell me he arrived at Heathrow Airport?"

"How did you know? He was in Animal Control for some reason for a while and brought here. He's a very rare bear as far as I know."

But the 'rare bear' had shambled off into the 'bear house', its fellow occupants still huddled in a corner shivering.

"Where's he gone? Ivan!" England yelled.

"He likes his newspaper," the zookeeper explained.

"Are you all insane, man? That's no bear! It's a person! He's a friend… well maybe not a friend… he's a…" England tried to think.

"Person of interest," Sealand concluded for him.

Belarus suddenly seemed to appear from nowhere, "Have you found him? Vanya? Brother?"

"Hello dear," England said lamely.

She punched him hard.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Honeymoon over then, Dad?" Sealand scoffed. He was clearly enjoying this.

Belarus dug out her phone. "He's in there, isn't he? I can smell him."

"Yes well… it does smell a bit." England said, nursing his bloodied nose.

Belarus would have punched him again but she was busy punching numbers into her mobile phone.

"Who are you ringing?" England asked, holding a handkerchief (monogrammed with AK) to his nose.

She ignored him.

Tinny music could be heard issuing from the bear enclosure.

"That's erm…. 1812 Overture?" England ventured.

"Don't be daft, Dad. It's Sleeping Beauty, I know my classical music I do. It's Tchaikovsky." Sealand said confidently.

"Stop being clever, Sealand."

"Prokofiev," Belarus answered them, her phone to her ear.

"I say! There's no need to be bloody rude," England replied.

"It's a composer. How ignorant are you? Did you go to school?" Sealand said.

"She bent my tail!" America wailed as he approached.

"Shut up, America. We found Russia." England said.

"I don't like my tail and I blame you and your rubbish magic. But look at it!" America held up his tail - which did indeed have a kink in it.

"All of you - shush! I'm hunting bears… I mean brothers…" Belarus said, putting a finger to her lips.

"Well I think it's time we were leaving. Give my love to Putin. I'm assuming that now you've found your brother, there'll be no bombs raining down on us?" England asked, about to slope off. He'd noticed a rather good cafe at the entrance and he was absolutely gagging for a cup of tea.

"You did not help me find my brother! I did it. You just happened to be there," Belarus pointed out.

"Yes well that's a bit by the by isn't it?" England said.

"Look at it! It's got a kink in it!" America was still lamenting his tail.

Belarus was busy talking on the phone and turned on them, "Shut up all of you! He says he's not coming out until…" she pointed at Sealand, "You get rid of all the balloons."

"Just tell bloody President Putin to halt the bloody bombing and I can go and get a cup of tea." England said.

"Of course there won't be any bombing. Are you stupid?" Belarus snapped.

"Yes he is." Sealand said. He looked disappointed.

"So he's not going to bomb us?" England asked.

"Who?"

"Putin!"

"Nyet, of course not. He's too busy on Twitter," Belarus replied.

"Twitter? What's twitter?" England looked confused.

Belarus shook her head, "Those twitterbots aren't going to spread fake news on their own you know."

"I knew it!" America yelled, punching the air.

"So there was never going to be war?" Sealand looked very disappointed.

Belarus shook her head, "Oh brother!" She called sweetly.

"Brother is not here!" A voice from the bear enclosure called back.

"Da he is. That was you!"

"Nyet, it was the bear…" the voice answered.

England, Sealand and America slunk away from this rather mad turn of events. This slinking turned into a run when they saw the police approaching.

Later..

"What is Twitter?" England asked, looking morosely at his tea cup.

They were sat in the zoo teashop.

"Can you fix my tail or at least magic it away?" America asked.

"This is so lame," Sealand said, looking from one to the other.

France came in with a worried-looking clown.

England resisted the urge to get up and run screaming from the place but realised that this clown was looking more scared than he felt.

"So all is well that ends well, non?" France said, winking.

"Where have you bloody been?" England asked, edging away from the clown.

"Aah set eez amor, non? Since zere is now no war, merci to me…" (it wasn't) "…zen Fabian here is going to continue my driving lessons as you have proven yourself to be such a terrible driving instructor." (He was right.)

"My name's Brian," the clown sadly told England.

'What's Twitter?" England asked the clown.

France flounced out pulling Fabian/Brian with him. "Come Fabian!"

Someone's phone buzzed. It was England's playing a tinny version of the Coronation Street theme tune. Past the window, a large Russian was being chased by a small blond woman in a blue dress, in turn chased by police and zookeepers.

Unfortunately for England and his cup of tea, it was not a simple telephone call. To his consternation it was a video call. He was startled when he saw Hungary's face on the screen, with Poland beside her. Both were glaring at him.

"What do you want?" He asked. He then squinted at their surroundings. "Why are you in my shed?"

"We want to know how you're going to diffuse this fruit cake of yours," Hungary said.

The phone's camera panned to a hole in the centre of the allotment shed floor where an ominous-looking Quality Street tin lay open. Inside lay the most devastating weapon known to mankind - England's home-made Christmas cake. There was a clock on it ticking.


	50. Cherry Bomb

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 50 - Cherry Bomb**

France was a happy soul. This was because he was in a car with a handsome man. Scratch that. He was in a car with a handsome man dressed as a clown.

"Where are you taking me?" the poor man said. Again.

France spun the steering wheel and headed down through Central London. "Have you ever been to Paris, Fabian?"

"No and my name's not Fabian. It's Brian."

France reached across and rubbed the man's nylon red wig, "Ah mon cher, you have not lived!"

Brian/Fabian almost screamed as their car went the wrong way around a roundabout, halting the London red busses and causing an Uber taxi driver to hoot his horn most aggressively. (Calling it 'their' car is wrong actually. It was stolen.)

"Ah ze English. So uptight!" France said.

"I think we should take this car back. I told you this isn't my car."

"Ah mon cher. You need to aspire to greater things. I bet CoCo ze clown did not drive a Ford," France shuddered. Of all the cars in the zoo car park. They had stolen a virulent yellow Peugeot. "Ah French cars, mon cher. Zere is nothing better. Apart from ze Ferrari zat I long for like a lover…"

The clown edged away from him in his seat. The strange effete Frenchman who was incomprehensibly dressed in pink lurex shorts and a yellow poncho had promised to take him to the Alabama Gay Rodeo convention, but it seemed he'd been kidnapped.

* * *

England was unaware of the zoo clown's predicament - although he would have been highly sympathetic. He'd spent many a horrid moment stuck in a car with France and his terrible driving. In fact, France's driving was even worse than Italy's and that was saying something.

At the present time though he was stood in his allotment shed looking down a hole.

"You are a terrible person, Arthur," Poland told him, with his hand on his hip (his own hip, not England's hip).

England looked up and round at the people looking expectantly at him.

Hungary shaking her head in disapproval, America looking bewildered, several security officers who all seemed to be under Poland's command (which England could not understand at all), Poland himself looking a little bored, Henry VI who was reading a script and asking anyone who would listen (nobody did) if he could play a credible medieval king (probably not), Sealand smirking and last of all, a fairy.

It was the presence of the fairy that disturbed England far more than the fruit cake in the hole.

"I just don't understand you, Tinks. I always looked after you," he said. For the fourth time.

"She works for me now," Hungary told him. "Get used to it."

"But she's been with me for years!"

"Yes well, I offered dental, comprehensive health insurance and five weeks paid leave," Hungary said.

Poland nodded. "All fairies should be entitled to a holiday," he said knowingly.

England didn't agree. What on earth would a fairy need with a holiday? Besides as far as he knew, Tinkerbell tended to just bugger off as and when she felt like it anyway and never asked him. He'd once had the temerity to ask her and she'd zapped him with her wand. Life lesson learned there the hard way - never piss off a drunk fairy. It had taken four weeks for his eyebrows to grow back.

"Never mind all that," America butted in. "What about my tail?"

"Tinks could you sort out his tail? Just as a favour to me?" England pleaded.

"She says no," Hungary said. "Now are you going to sort out this fruitcake?"

" _He's_ a fruitcake," America said, looking at England.

"I have no idea what the problem is," England said, ignoring America for a moment. He scratched his head. "I used a recipe from the Good Housekeeping magazine. One of Mary Berry's. There isn't a problem with it. I have no idea why it's here though."

"It's bloody glowing, man," America pointed out. He was right.

"It's a Christmas cake. I thought I'd put it in that Quality Street tin to save it for next Christmas," England explained.

"I might go back home to the States this Christmas," America said.

"Why is it ticking, Arthur?" Hungary asked.

England noticed that his fellow Nations had stopped calling him by his Nation name and now he was just 'Arthur' as if they'd lost all respect for him. Which they had. He'd gotten used to the security services not saluting him or calling him 'Sir' - although it still rankled that they even saluted the idiot American.

He sighed, "I have no idea. It shouldn't tick."

"Well der… it's a cake. Cakes should not tick." Poland said in a bored voice.

"Dad should have his recipe books taken off him. He's dangerous," Sealand said.

England bent down to examine his cake. "I wonder if I overdid the baking soda?"

Everyone stepped back as he poked the cake.

"You're quite brave really, aren't you, Arthur?" Hungary said.

"It's a bloody cake," England said impatiently. "I don't know why it's ticking though."

"And it's counting down," Sealand observed.

He was right. The clock was counting down. It had read 12:00:00 which England had been annoyed at - that hadn't been the time - it was surely later than midday. But now it read 11:57:00.

"Oh my God! The small person is correct!" Hungary said. She nodded to the security men. "Get a cordon set up. Sandbags around the shed. Ten mile exclusion zone. Go."

"Hmmm… well whatever it's counting down to, we have 11 hours to sort it out. So put that kettle on, Hungary and make us a brew."

"Are you asking me because I'm a woman?" Hungary asked.

"I thought Hungary was a bloke?" Sealand whispered to America. (Probably in retaliation for Hungary calling him a 'small person'.)

"Dunno," America said, "But to be honest, if he's going to start poking his baking, I'm going to haul ass as I bet my new Prez needs me."

"So much for being the hero," Poland said as the American hurried out.

England turned to Hungary, "I was asking you because you're stood next to the kettle." He shook his head at America. "Let him go. He's never understood my cooking."

"Dad, none of us have," Sealand said, "I remember your lemon drizzle cake…" The boy shuddered. "And when Great British Bake Off started it just got more horrendous." He turned big teary eyes on Hungary. "You have no idea what it was like growing up with him."

"I thought you brought yourself up on a fort in the middle of the North Sea?" Poland asked, looking suspicious.

"Yeah but I still had to spend every third weekend with him. When he wasn't training with some crack undercover bakers or something…"

"Undercover SAS!" England yelled.

"Or gay rodeo riders," Sealand added and raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe any of that. He always has an excuse not to have me over. But he always has America over. I can't stand Alfred. He's a right show-off and he's got my bedroom now. Although he does have all the latest Playstation games. He's spoilt."

Nobody was listening.

A man with impressive epaulets came in and saluted Hungary, "The perimeter is secured, Sir."

"Good," she replied. "Arthur, do you stuff." She turned to leave, pulling Poland and Sealand with her. Tinkerbell made a rude a gesture at England and flew after her.

England cracked his knuckles, "Just you and me, cake," he said.

"And me, Arthur," came a voice.

"Oh bloody hell, King Henry! I forgot you were there!"

"If I may say. It looks as if you've put too many cherries in that cake, Arthur."

England ignored him. They were now alone in the shed. Outside, Poland, Hungary, Sealand and a bevy of Security men, soldiers and police were crouching behind sandbags.

"How bad is this likely to be?" Hungary asked the most senior looking soldier.

"Seriously? The last cake almost got to the Thames, from there it could have reached the English Channel. London is still rebuilding. The whole of the south of the river was splattered with sponge. Experts thinks that it will take years before it's habitable again."

"That was the buttercream icing," Sealand said. He looked sad. "I thought Uncle Den and Gilbert had eaten most of it?"

"Not all of it, Sir." (England would have been appalled to hear that Sealand was still being called 'sir'.). "Parts of it keeping turning up in the sewers." The man turned to Hungary. "It's still sentient, Sir."

Hungary nodded. "Then let's hope that moron in there can diffuse that bomb, I mean, er, cake."

* * *

"So what do you think I should do?" England asked Henry.

"I don't know, but I think you should have attempted to magic that boy Alfred's tail away. I mean the poor boy will have to fly home on one of those big metal bird things with a tail. He'll get bullied."

England doubted that. America never got bullied. He on the other hand…

His phone rang. "What? I'm doing it! Of course I know what I'm doing! Honestly, calm down. It's just a bloody cake! Yes yes I did use cherries. And sultanas. Tell Peter to shut up." England yelled and switched it off. "Hungary," he explained to King Henry's raised eyebrow.

"Do I need to get out of the way? I'm thinking if I go back four hundred years I might be safe," King Henry said.

"Everyone's a comedian," England muttered and made himself a mug of tea. He was disappointed that the only usable receptacle was a Manchester United mug. Also there were only two teabags left. Clearly, he was going to have to get on with it. Or go to Tesco's.

"I think you should cut the red wire," King Henry said.

England looked at him, "I thought you were going to go back four hundred years?"

"I think you need help," King Henry said.

England had no idea how a dead medieval king was going to help him diffuse a bomb/cake. 'What red wire? How do you know? You didn't have bombs back then. I remember."

"No, because if there had been, you can bet Edward of York would have used them. Nasty piece of work. He stole my crown, Arthur. Remember?"

"It was a long time ago, dear old bean." England sighed, taking a sip from his tea and grimacing. The milk was off. There were also no biscuits. Clearly, Denmark and Prussia had eaten them all. There was a discarded tin bath still full of bubbles in the corner and a pile of empty beer cans. Disgusting.

"Have you done it yet, Arthur?" Someone (possibly Hungary) yelled from outside.

England ignored her. He peered at the wires attached to the cake leading to the timer that was ticking down. This was a delicate operation, requiring nerves of steel and a steady hand.

"Bloody get on with it!" Someone outside yelled.

"Morons," England muttered. "Blue wire or red wire… blue or red… blue or red…"

"Or yellow," King Henry said.

"What?" England almost dropped his tea.

"There's a yellow wire."

"Don't be stupid. Why am I even listening to you?" England frowned and looked at the timer. "Damn." It now read 09:00:03. "I presume that's nine minutes and not hours? Oh bloody bugger."

"How do I know? I don't have a watch," King Henry said. "I think I'm going to get out of here…"

"You're already bloody dead! How can the bomb hurt you?"

"This is one of your cakes, Arthur. I think even being dead won't keep a person safe."

England looked at the dead king, "If you can't think of anything to say that's useful just bugger off and go get me some custard creams or something."

"Where do I get such things?"

"There's a Co-op down the road, just go there." England tossed him some money. "And hurry up."

"I think I should have gone with the American boy," Henry said as he dissipated.

England took another sip of tea and checked the clock. 07:31:05. He tried to remember the actual recipe he had used. And what joker had attached the wires and the timer? He couldn't actually see any dynamite or TNT. Somebody was obviously having a laugh.

He looked at his phone and pressed the icon that said 'youtube'. The boy (meaning America) had shown him that this 'youtube' had instructional videos for everything.

He flicked through idly. "How to… do your own makeup, how to cut your own hair… honestly, really? How to pick up women…" here England paused and thought about watching this one but then realised that he was wasting time and he had a planet to save (or at least Inner London), "How to stop your coworkers eating your food… Interesting…" England would have watched this also but was aware of the clock ticking. "…How to colour your own hair… how to learn Russian in two weeks…hold on! Is that Ivan Braginski? No don't have time… How to make the perfect Victoria sponge… hmmm… how to unblock a toilet… Watch Arthur make a cake...Wait what?"

He frowned and thought about this for a moment and then clicked on the link and watched. He saw himself making a cake which then exploded. "What in the name of Captain Jack is this?" he shouted.

There were other videos that had gone 'viral'. Titled 'Anglo-French gay couple cause havoc in London' or 'Anglo-French gay couple wreck a Ferrari', and 'Anglo-French gay couple drop a desk on a Mercedes'.

Somebody had used some kind of dash-cam (England thought it was called a cam-dash) to film England and France's recent incidents and subsequently uploaded these to Youtube. England could now understand his neighbours' aversion to him - they'd obviously seen these videos (they hadn't) and why Her Majesty sniggered when she saw him (she did) and why his Prime Minister thought he was drunk. It all now made sense. He would have his revenge. He suspected who it was.

But there was no time for signing this person up for penis-enlargement emails, sending them a life-time subscription for 'Roundabouts of Britain' magazine or even sending Francis over for a weekend party (but perhaps that was taking revenge too far).

"This is as stressful as Great British Bake Off," England said to himself. "Ah here we are. 'How to diffuse a cake'." He watched the video quickly. He tried to ignore the comments underneath: 'Very useful when dealing with Arthur Kirkland's battenburg cake thank you - Francis Chevalier Bonaparte Bonnefoy'. He would have words later with his fellow Nations. England gritted his teeth. Bloody France. Ha bloody ha.

05:32:00. He'd better get a shifty on. He dug around in the cupboard and found his secateurs. They needed a clean. Someone, probably Prussia - the yob - had been using them to make a sandwich. There was butter on them. England wiped them on a rag, which turned out to be a Danish flag, and then hesitated over the wires.

Really, what could possibly happen if he cut the wrong wire? The Christmas cake couldn't possibly hurt him could it?

Then his phone buzzed and the tinny sound of the Coronation Street theme tune filled the shed.

"I'm doing it right now!" He yelled down the phone. "Honestly, woman!" He shouted, thinking it was Hungary. (Although in all honesty he wouldn't normally yell at her.)

"Doing what, England?" It was Russia.

"Diffusing a cake," England said, exasperated and peering at the cake. The video had made it look easy. Cross over the blue and red wires and then snip the red. But… there was a yellow wire, just as King Henry had said.

"Is that an English custom?" Russia asked.

"Russia, is it the red wire you snip? What happens if there's a yellow one?" England asked. Surely Russia would know?

"I think it would be the red one, but it depends. Is there a brown one?"

"What?"

"I want to ask you a question. Do you use your understairs cupboard a lot?"

"What?"

"I think, England, that you have a problem with your hearing."

England frowned, "Well as much as I would like to carry on with this insanity, Russia, I have to go. I hope Miss Belarus did not catch up with you…"

"She will never find me here. Her and her balloon…" Russia said mysteriously.

England shuddered, "I'm going into a tunnel, bye…"

04:19:01. Time was going fast. England checked his own watch. A Mickey Mouse contraption that America had given him for his last birthday. It had never kept proper time. Just like its giver. So blue or red wire? Or even yellow… He considered Russia's comment. Should there be a brown one? Should he be worried?

04:01:00. Four minutes left. Loads of time really. You could boil an egg in that time. But not eat it. A soft-boiled egg of course, not a hard-boiled one.

Eggs. How many eggs had he put in this cake? He couldn't really remember which recipe he'd used. Why on earth had he put it down there? He remembered the tin though. He kept such old chocolate and biscuit tins for his cakes. But often had to tape the lids down or the cake would escape. That had only happened twice.

He shook himself. Arming himself with the secateurs, he prepared to cut the red wire. Or the blue one. He wavered. Holding the wires in his hands and was about to cut when…

"Yo! I know you need the hero, so here I am!"

England jumped half a foot into the air and the cake went with him.

"Woah there!" America caught it in his hands. "Phew! I should play for the Cubs." Whatever that bloody meant.

"You couldn't get a bloody flight could you?"

"Nah… and besides that, my new Prez has cancelled my gold credit card. I left here, rang American Airlines, Delta, even United, that's how bad it was and none of them would take my card!" America said, ten to the dozen. "Did you miss me, dude?" He'd only been gone five minutes England noted. He couldn't have got to the bottom of the road.

America gave the cake back to England, took the secateurs from him and cut the blue wire.

England almost screamed and then went quiet when nothing happened.

The timer carried on ticking.

02:03:04.

"Oh well…" America said.

England peered at the timer and then had a brainwave. "Do you have a screwdriver?" He asked.

America emptied his pockets - a headless Superman, a baseball card, a pack of chewing gum, a (now defunct) Amex credit card, a very battered mobile phone, a single dollar, a lump of blu-tac and a screwdriver. He gave the latter to England.

England was now truly working against the clock and sweat beaded on his brow. America mopped it for him.

He carefully unscrewed the back of the timer.

'Careful, man, careful," America said, preparing to mop his brow again and then taking the secateurs from him. They looked like a montage from a hospital drama. Except for the tail.

"Steady hand, old chap," England muttered and… took out the batteries.

The timer stopped at 00:00:07.

"Saved the world from a fruit cake, man." America said and then shouted out of the door, "Yo! I did it!" He then amended this when he saw England's eyebrows shoot up, "I mean, er, we did it! Don't worry… The cake's safe."

America turned and almost fell over when England broke a piece of the cake off and chewed it. "You're the bravest Nation I know, man." America said in hushed tones.

England smiled.

"…Apart from Poland, I mean. And dude Lithuania who lived with fat Russkie, and then there's me of course and Hungary pretty hard and of course there's my bro Canadia who was amaze-balls in the War, man. But after them…" America continued.

"Of course," Hungary said as she watched England chase America down the road with a large piece of fruit cake, "The question is, who put the cake there and who put the timer on it? Who's really behind all this?"

 **Further chapters:**

 **Group therapy**

 **Arthur goes on holiday**


	51. The Passenger

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 51 The Passenger**

"If only zis car had a fold-down roof, non?" France asked the clown sat next to him.

The clown disagreed. It was raining hard. Although that wasn't really their biggest problem, their biggest problem was the fact that they were heading onto a cross-channel ferry, sandwiched between two huge articulated lorries.

"I don't think we should be here," Brian/Fabian told France. They were in the lorry lane.

"Of course we should, mon cher," France said, stroking the man's red wig. France had still not sobered up. "We are on our way to gay Paris! Ze city of lights, love and…" here France tried to think of another word beginning with 'L'.

"Lunacy," the clown said.

"Non, you are so silly!" France giggled and slapped the clown ineffectually. "L'amor." He said finally.

"Isn't that the same as love?"

"Ah an Englishman who appreciates ze language of lurve!"

"Not really. Are you going to let me go soon?"

France looked at him. He had stopped the car and they were parked between two lorries either side of them and two lorries in front and behind. They were veritably sandwiched in. "Hmmm…" France said as he tried to open his drivers door. "I zink we are going to have to stay here until we reach ze coast of le France!"

"Oh no."

"But eet eez so cosy, non?"

The clown was already trying to ring someone for help.

France, oblivious, was waving coquettishly at the lorry driver next to them, who glared back. "Ah look, Fabian, he is so handsome in his high-vis vest that complements his so English complexion. It reminds me so much of Lancelot. Shall I tell you about Lancelot?"

The clown was now jabbering helplessly into his phone before the battery ran out while France went into a reverie about his recent driving test.

* * *

England was sat in his kitchen. This in itself was an improvement on recent events. Unfortunately, his kitchen was also full of Hungary, Poland, America, Sealand and various Army/Security men.

The offending Christmas cake (still in its tin) sat on the table and looked at him balefully.

England had 'Winston', one of the kittens on his knee. America was hand-feeding the others. Sealand was playing on America's hand-held game device, some game called 'Dysentry' or something. (It was actually called Destiny as both America and Sealand had told him dozens of times.).

America's tail was now gone. England had waved his magic wand and incanted a spell and the thing had disappeared. Unfortunately, America now had green hair. But he seemed to accept that this was a consequence of living with a failed magician and resolved to go out and buy some hair dye.

As England sipped tea from his china teacup adorned with roses (his first decent beverage for over 24 hours), he listened or half-listened to Hungary and Poland and various people telling him he was 'lucky' that his cake had been defused.

He resisted the urge to laugh hysterically. He did not feel 'lucky'.

They were gathered around his kitchen table discussing what evil mastermind had put the cake down in the hole.

"There are some sick people around," Hungary said.

"Honestly, if we hadn't discovered it, can you imagine what would have happened?" Poland said, his hand on his hip, looking around England's kitchen with a discerning eye. "God this place is a dump," he added, "Why don't you decorate? I can't believe Francis actually lives here."

"Sir, Ma'am, whoever put that cake down that hole obviously knew what they were doing. The blast radius would have taken out the MOD."

"The MOD?" America looked up from playing with several kittens (Franklin, George and Hamilton) on the floor with some string.

"Ministry of Defence, Sir." The man explained.

"What did you think it was?" England asked wearily.

"Ministry of Darkness?"

"I think you're mad."

"WWE is just great though, Dad. You should really get Sky Sports Channel," Sealand butted in.

"Will it mean more football?" England asked.

Sealand nodded. He didn't know and didn't care.

England hesitated as Sealand handed him the telephone, the number already dialled in. "Ring them, Dad."

England screwed up his eyes. "Will it cost?"

"You'll get all the cricket as well."

"WWE! WWE! WWE!" America chanted.

"Never mind all that wrestling stuff, what about this cake? Who put it down that hole? Any ideas? Anybody? Is it only me who cares about the fate of the world?" Hungary asked. She turned to the fairy on her shoulder, "Yes, Tinkerbell, I see the problems you've had. It must have been a nightmare."

England was considering things - both the cake, the phone handed to him by Sealand with someone on the other end of it asking him what he could do to help and the strange noises coming from his understairs cupboard.

First things first, he thought. "Hello? Sky? I wonder if you can help me…"

"Sky sports… sky sports… sky sports…" Chanted both Sealand and America.

"…Do you have any idea how much baking powder you're supposed to put in Mary Berry's Christmas Cake recipe?"

Amazingly, the man on the other end of customer services did not know.

"The. Christmas. Cake. Arthur…" Hungary said in slow, deliberately menacing tones. She hung the phone up - much to America's and Sealand's protestations.

"Never mind that… someone turn the radio up," England said.

The radio had been on BBC Radio 1 (which England did not approve of - he usually listened to Radio 4) and Sealand promptly turned up the volume.

England cocked his head to listen suspiciously. "Shush everyone…"

"Here's a caller called Brian who says he works at London Zoo. What song are you requesting, Brian?"

"Please help me, I'm trapped in a car with a Frenchman who has kidnapped me."

"We don't know that song!" The DJ said, obviously thinking this was a fake caller.

"It's true! I'm the passenger in a…" the line went dead.

"Thank you, caller! We'll play 'The Passenger' by Iggy Pop just for you!" The DJ said.

"Francis gets about, doesn't he?" Poland observed mildly.

It was quite amazing how the Nations had realised the man had been kidnapped by Francis. But actually, what other Frenchman would kidnap a zoo clown?

"Bloody loon. At least he's far away from me." England declared with a satisfied smile. "You can turn it off now, Peter."

"I don't take orders from you."

It was true. Nobody took orders from England.

"So, this Christmas cake. What's in it?" Hungary asked. She nodded at the security men who may or may not have been CIA/British security/Hungarian security. Three of them suddenly pinned England to his chair.

He was about to answer when there was a knock on the door.

"Saved by the bell," he muttered. Only that would save him, certainly not his own son or his adopted son, America, who was obliviously playing with kittens and trying to apply for a credit card on his phone.

"Sure sure, my name's Alfred Fitzgerald Jones, Lieutenant-Colonel United States Air Force, Silver Star, Purple Heart, Mickey Mouse Club, Blue Peter medal - that was my friend Arthur's…" America burbled down his phone. "My address was 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. So I was wondering if I could have a credit limit of 10 thousand dollars… pounds sterling or whatever it is…?" America continued.

The person at the door was the Neighbourhood Watch Association, all of them trooping in. Even the combined security services could not stop them.

"Ah hello Mrs Pomfrey, do you have those geranium cuttings for me?" England asked.

"Who the hell are you?" Hungary asked them.

"Godfrey Ponsonby-Smythe, Geraldine Pomfrey, Bartholomew Arrowby-Percival and Felicity Judith Longbottom-Wolstenholme," one of them said.

"Say what?" Poland asked.

"Neighbourhood Watch," one of them said.

"Oh dear God."

America dropped his phone.

England nodded.

"Is this like the Allotment Society all over again?" Hungary asked England.

"No, far worse."

One of them coughed and begin to read from a piece of paper, "Your borders need trimming, your privet hedge is obstructing the pavement to the north of your property, your bins have not been emptied in two weeks.."

"The bin day keeps changing!" England protested.

"Your next door neighbour complained to us about the noise. In fact we all have. It's atrocious. The cars being wrecked, the screaming, which is something we got used to, but this particular screaming has taken the biscuit and then there's the nudity."

"Arthur!" Hungary gasped.

"It was Francis. He has a tendency to put the washing out on the line wearing just an apron. He says it helps if he gets some fresh air to his derrière," England said in a resigned tone.

'Then there was that party the other night…"

"Wait, what party?" England asked. (America and Sealand suddenly looked very busy.)

The Neighbourhood Watch, all crowded around him, didn't answer, "The strange visitors…"

"Hey! We're not strange, are we Liz?" Pol said, outraged, flicking his hair back.

Hungary didn't answer, she was watching, fascinated. She'd put down her crossbow and was ignoring her phone which was playing some Hungarian folk music.

It sounded to England like a brass band falling down the stairs. It was probably Austria ringing her about losing his way around his mansion or something, England thought. (He was right - almost, it was actually Austria losing his way around his Psychiatrist office.)

"The final straw was when parts of that cake began landing on our roofs. You owe us for reparation, Kirkland," one of the Neighbourhood Watch said.

England realised that it wasn't 'Arthur' or 'Mr Kirkland' any more, it was just 'Kirkland'. "I hardly think that was my fault."

"And poor Rosemarie next door. She's had a lot to put up with," Mrs Pomfrey said.

"She should be grateful. I introduced her to her current husband," England said.

"You mean that terrible drunkard who calls himself George King?" Somebody said.

"Clever…" England said, thinking of George IV. (It wasn't clever really.) He was dismayed to note that they had all taken seats around the kitchen table. He refused to make them a cup of tea even though it went against his usual politeness.

"And also that small terrible person who turned up the other week. Very rude." One of them said.

"Who?" England asked. It could be anyone. They were all rude.

"It looked like a child in a costume."

"Not me!" Sealand exclaimed.

"No, not you," the woman said. She glared at him, "Although you were the one who stole the apples out of my tree."

"You're out of your tree," Sealand said and before England could swipe him, he hurried off into the lounge. "Are yer comin', Alfred?" He called. "I bet I can beat you at COD."

"Yeah right…" America muttered, standing up, "He can't, he really can't," he 'reassured' the others.

Nobody listened.

"This child…" England began.

"Dressed as a bloody panda," Mrs Longbottom-Wolstenholme, or whatever she was called, said.

Hungary and Poland exchanged looks.

England suddenly sat up. "Did this panda person leave here with a Quality Street tin did you notice?"

"As a matter of fact I didn't notice."

"I thought you were the Neighbourhood Watch!"

"We're not here to watch your house!"

"Well actually after everything that you've said, I thought that you were."

"Enough of this!" Hungary said suddenly. She turned to Poland, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Pol?"

"Short back and sides for Arthur, the woman needs her eyebrows shaping and that man there needs his moustache trimming?"

"No," Hungary said with a sigh. Was she really the only competent person? She turned to one of the security men, the highest ranked one. "Get me the Chief of MI5 on the phone and make it snappy."

"Yes Sir."

"I say!" said England, or possibly one of the Neighbourhood Watch.

* * *

Deep in the bowels of a cross-channel ferry going to France, was France himself. However, they were now not going to France as some sharp-eyed high-vis vested person had seen that a small lurid Peugeot was parked in the lorry bay.

"You'll have to move," they were told.

"Pourquoi?" France asked.

"Eh?"

"Excusez-moi?"

"You'll have to move your car!"

"I do not have to do anyzing," France argued.

Actually, France was correct. In a way. He actually couldn't move 'his' car. It was well and truly jammed between two lorries, front back and sides.

But this person did not accept that and France caused absolute mayhem when twenty-four lorries had to reverse out of the ferry so that France could manoeuvre his 'crappy' vehicle out.

This made the ferry late by 1 hour and 32 minutes precisely and caused a lot of horn-blowing and rude shouting.

France found himself stood on the dockside arguing vehemently with a couple of officials - all in lurid green high-vis jackets - about his driving ability and his right to leave the green and pleasant land that was England.

Brian the clown stood next to him, silently crying.

"You have made me miss my ferry! Ah le France! Will I ever see such a gorgeous country again?" France cried as the ferry left without him. He flung himself to the ground.

Before France could harangue the men about their diabolical fashion senses, he had been pinioned against the car's bonnet by some burly policemen and breathalyzed.

Brian the clown was truly crying now as he explained why he shouldn't lose his 'clown's licence'.

"This gorgeous man here… ignore ze make-up, underneath eet, ee resembles George Clooney, oui… ee eez giving me driving lessons, non? Zis is because mon ami, who is actually not mon ami, I realise zis too late, Arthur Kirkland, refuses to teach me to drive. He called me a bloody moron and an imbecile. Of course, I do not agree…" France was telling the policemen as he attempted to walk in a straight line to prove his sobriety.

"Ah you want me to blow into zis again? Oui? My pleasure, mon cher. Ah zat black uniform does nothing for your colouring. I would suggest a leetle red to blend with your eyes…"

France did not stop talking even when they arrived at the Police Station. Unfortunately for Brian, he was arrested as well due to France insisting that Brian was in charge of the vehicle as France was merely a 'learner'. Technically he was correct, but this did not help the poor clown who envisaged his career going down the pan and all because of a drunk and lecherous Frenchman.

"Oui… mon next of kin?" France said, answering their questions. "I do not have one. But you can call any one of mes amies," France purred at the officer who was filling in a form. "Any one of them would drop everyzing and cross hell or high water to come and get me and bail me out."

France's face fell a little though when he was told that due to the amount of times he had been arrested in the last few weeks, he would be held in custody and be up before the magistrates court in the morning with bail being set for a 'substantial amount'.

He was sure, absolutely sure, that any one of the Nations would gladly put up bail for his release. Any of them.

* * *

"Oh dear God, France has been bloody arrested again!" England declared, reading a text. "Can we all pretend we haven't seen this?"

Hungary and Poland nodded. Hungary began texting all the other Nations to warn them.

"What are you going to do, Kirkland?" One of the Neighbourhood Watch asked.

"About…?"

"The disturbances, the screaming, the cars revving at all hours, the desks flying through windows, the strange people coming and going, the swearing, your untidy herbaceous borders…?

"It's all sorted. The offender is now in prison where he'll be staying for a very long time. As for my borders… I suggest that an Englishman's borders are his own to look to," England said imperiously. "Now I bid you goodnight!" He said, opened the door and ushered them out.

"It's not night, Arthur. It's the afternoon," Hungary pointed out.

"It feels like it should be night."

Hungary's phone rang, "Just a minute while I get this… Listen Roddy, I don't care if you're lost in your office or you've lost your office or you've lost something in your office. I'm in an important meeting… oh sorry, I didn't realise it was you…" she turned and mouthed 'head of MI5' to England and Poland.

"Head of MFI," Poland informed England.

"You mean MI5," England corrected the Pole.

"Sure, sure. Is there a difference?" Poland said.

"I bloody hope so."

Poland pulled a face.

Hungary nodded and said into the phone, "Okay, I see. Thank you for informing me. You've informed Canada? And China? Well yes, who'd have thought? I always thought Mr Panda looked cute as well. But we all thought Mr Kumajiro was cute and look what happened there! On the run you say…" She nodded again.

England shook his head, "I never said Mr Panda or Mr Kumajiro was cute."

"That's your problem, Arthur," Poland said.

"I've had problems with small bloody bears all along," England said.

Hungary hung up, snapping her phone shut with a resounding clap. She turned to the security forces, "Okay guys, move out, I'll brief you on the way back to base."

England wondered, not for the first time, how on earth it came to pass that Hungary was in charge of his security forces.

"Mr Kumajiro has obviously been apprehended by myself and Pol." Here Hungary and Poland high-fived each other. "And he's currently languishing in London Zoo before being repatriated to Canada. With Canada. Unfortunately though it looks as if Mr Panda was behind the whole thing. Mr Kumajiro squealed on him when they threatened to take away his television. But MI5 were too late getting to the Chinese Embassy and he's on the run." She shrugged. "Apparently he left a message that he'll get his revenge."

* * *

Later...much later... too much later (for England)

England finally locked the back door and front door, closed the curtains, and made himself a cup of tea. America and Sealand were 'happy' playing some awful shoot 'em up game and the house was relatively quiet - apart from some strange sounds coming from the understairs cupboard. He hoped it wasn't the boiler on the blink again.

However, one good thing was that there was no sign of France. England really hoped the Frenchman would get a long jail sentence. What was the custodial sentence for kidnapping zoo clowns?

The Englishman sat down with the evening paper and prepared to do the crossword.

"One down, six letter word for a person who betrays another…hmmm… traitor!" England filled this in happily and took a sip of tea. "Three across, seven letter word, European country adjacent to the North Sea and Irish Sea…England!" This made England smile.

He stuffed a custard cream in his mouth and read out the next clue. "Five across, seven letter word, the action of hurting someone in response to a hurt or injury suffered at their hands." Here England had a think. From the lounge, someone yelled, "Revenge."

England was feeling a little unsettled now. He put the crossword aside for a moment. Perhaps he was just a bit paranoid. However, when he picked up the paper and saw the personal ads, he dropped his cup of tea.

'ARTHUR KIRKLAND YOU HAVE EATEN YOUR LAST BOURBON CREAM' one of the ads said...

 **To be continued...**

 **Next Chapters:**

 **Therapy**

 **A lovely relaxing holiday**

 **Driving lessons with a twist…**


	52. I Don't Need No Doctor

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 52 - I Don't Need No Doctor**

England was humming away to the radio. He was in his beloved Bentley (with cellophane covering the back seats) on his way to his holiday home in Wales (okay his brother Wales' holiday home). On his own. With nobody. Alone. He needed this holiday, he really did. The past few days had driven him to beer and cigarettes (despite having given up smoking after World War 2).

He looked in the rear view mirror and grimaced at the huge 4x4 that had been following him all the way up the M4. He really really hoped it wasn't that psychopathic panda who had vowed vengeance on him…

The Englishman cast his mind to the previous day when he'd been 'invited' in the loosest term possible to a 'Therapy Day'. He'd expected it to be a nice spa day where he could have a facial and massage. It wasn't. At all.

* * *

The previous day…

England looked around the room and wondered, not for the first time in his very very long life, what on earth he was doing. He was also thinking about killing France - again, not for the first time in their thousand year history.

The reason? He had been invited to a Therapy Day and gone along quite happily, clutching his bathrobe and towel expecting a relaxing massage and facial. What he found was a support group for 'People whose lives have been ruined by France'. Obviously, he was the most affected by France in his eyes. These people around him had no idea, they really didn't. Amateurs.

And there were a lot of people there. A lot. In fact, England had very quickly run back to his car and thrown his bathrobe back in the boot and was about to drive off when Germany and Spain had both strong-armed him back into the place. He should have known as the address on the invite was Austria's psychotherapy office.

Not all of the attendees were Nations, in fact they were in the minority. There were some gay rodeo riders (without their horses), a few hairdressers who glared at England when they'd entered the room. (England wasn't sure which one was 'Shirl'.) 'Lancelot' the hapless driving examiner who sat on England's left and was biting his nails and looked as if he'd aged 20 years overnight. There were a few lorry drivers, a few Buckingham Palace security guards, a few CIA men - who were complaining bitterly to each other about their respective 'names'. England was still unsure which one was Maurice, Pascal or Pierre, or whatever the hell France had christened them.

There were also several restaurant staff, car dealership staff, zoo staff, airport security staff (England didn't think their interactions with France really warranted their attendance here but what did he know?) and a forlorn-looking clown named Brian.

Amongst the Nations were Spain, who sat opposite England in the circle, biting his nails obsessively and glaring at the Englishman, Germany, who kept tutting very loudly, Lithuania with Poland (the latter was nodding to some music on his earphones and filing his nails), Italy (who was clinging to Germany), Romano who glared at Germany and Spain intermittently and Canada - to England's surprise. He didn't think France had recently ruined Canada's life.

Presiding over the meeting was Austria, who kept clicking his tongue and telling them more and more shrilly to 'be quiet, please'.

"Is there any tea?" England asked.

Someone snorted, "Any tea, he says! As if he hasn't done enough!"

And then the floodgates opened.

Apparently, according to these people, it was all his fault.

"You're an enabler, Arthur," Austria said finally, writing notes on his pad, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"A what?" England looked around at the sea of hostile faces.

"An enabler. You enable him." Someone told him.

"To do what?" England looked around.

"To seduce, debauch, cheat, embezzle, ruin lives."

England thought about this for a moment, "You're forgetting that he's ruined my life far more than he's ruined yours!" He told them all. "Is there any tea?"

He knew, just knew, that Austria was now writing down, 'Obsession with tea'.

"But he lives with you!" Germany yelled.

"Ah I wondered when you were going to say something."

"Ja. You ruined my beautiful car. You and your French boyfriend." Germany turned to everyone in the room. "He lured me to his house to help him with something and then they - him and Francis - dropped an antique desk on my car."

England sighed. Not this again.

Italy gave a little sob.

"What is it, Feliciano? You can speak here. This is a safe space," Austria said.

"Honestly, France is not my bloody boyfriend!" England yelled.

"Speak up, Feliciano," someone said kindly, ignoring England.

"Since Mr France… I mean er Francis moved in with him, he's been awful. He ruined my business…" Italy sniffled.

"He doesn't live with me! We are not a couple!" England yelled.

"You're always together! I feel sorry for the children," someone said.

"What children? Do you mean Alfred? Oh for heaven's sake." England replied.

"They mean Peter," Spain said.

"Dreadful child, just like his father. A reprobate," Germany grumbled.

"Anyway, moving on. Does anyone else want to share?" Austria said.

Poland nudged Lithuania. "Go on, Liet, like, tell them."

Lithuania coughed and went a little red. He was a brave soul - as anyone who had lived with Russia had to be - but he was not a complainer. "Erm well Francis ruined my life. I went out for a little drink with him. It was only supposed to be a quick 'drinky-poos' as he called it. I woke up in Lima wearing a pink tutu, cowboy boots and with a rose tattoo."

Poland shook his head, "I had to go and get him," Pol told the group. He turned to Lithuania, "You did look gorgeous though, honey."

England shuddered.

"What's wrong with you?" Pol said suddenly, seeing England's reaction.

"Me?" England looked up.

"Yes, you. Homophobe!" Pol said accusingly.

"No I'm not! I'm very non homophobe. I think you'll find… hang on!" England said, looking round at the accusing looks and hearing the tuts, "You lot were all saying I'm in a relationship with France!"

'In denial…' Austria wrote in his notebook.

"How can I be a bloody homophobe if I'm in a relationship with a bloody bloke?"

'Latent homosexuality, issues with identity,' Austria wrote.

"Stop bloody writing!" England yelled at Austria.

'Stop writing,' Austria wrote.

"You carry on, Osterreich," Germany said. "He's a disgrace. This is a long time coming."

"Oh yes, well you would have something to bloody say, wouldn't you? Bloody uptight German…" England began to say. He happened to look and saw, or thought he saw, Russia peering at them through the window. He blinked and the big face was gone. "I think I just saw Russia," he said.

"You can't distract us with him," Germany said, crossing his knees.

Italy whimpered.

"We're not little kids anymore, Arthur. You can't scare us with the stories about the big bad wolf," Romano said blithely.

"Is that Ivan Braginksi?" One of the security men asked.

Several of the Nations dived under the chairs until they realised the man was asking a rhetorical question.

England nodded, "Yes, and he was there. Just outside the window."

"Wh…wh…wh…why would he be here?" Lithuania stammered.

"Shall we get back to the topic in hand?" Austria asked - from underneath his desk.

"Oh yes, let's!" England said, crossing his arms. This was clearly turning into a 'bash Arthur Kirkland' meeting.

"They ruined my hairdressing business!" 'Shirl' pointed out. Her bad dye job bobbed at England.

"You did that by yourself, dear," England muttered.

"And my zoo has never been the same!" the director of London Zoo said.

"I had to go into a rehab clinic for clowns," the clown said.

England frowned.

"They stole one of our cars and returned it in such a state we had to scrap it!" One of the dealership men said, pointing at England.

"Now look here! It's not my bloody fault if you allow any nutter who walks in to test drive one of your fancy cars. And trying to pay off your bloody over-expensive piece of metal is why Francis is bloody living with me!" England retorted.

"He broke up me and my girlfriend," Spain said sadly.

"That wasn't Francis, it was him!" Someone said, for once sticking up for France and pointing at England.

"I didn't do anything!"

"He's a cockblocker," Romano said.

"Si," Spain nodded.

One of the hairdressers raised a hand, "Can I ask a question?"

"Of course, this is a safe place where you can feel to express your thoughts," Austria said from under his desk.

"Who is this Ivan Braginski person?"

Several of the Nations jumped again and looked around nervously.

Italy clutched Germany, "I'm scared, Luddy."

"He's not here, Feli," Germany whispered, "Get off me!"

"He's a Russian living in my understairs cupboard," England explained. It was true. He was.

"Why do you allow this, Arthur?" Germany demanded.

"You try shifting him! He's happy with America's iPad thingy and now I've got him working his way through the last decade of Coronation Street…"

"British soap operas aren't going to keep him from ripping the place to shreds," Germany warned.

"It has so far," England said confidently. "That and lots of vodka."

"Is he a dissident or something?" The hairdresser asked.

"He's hiding from his little sister," England patiently explained. It was true. Russia had taken residence in his understairs cupboard with two of the kittens and the vacuum cleaner. Apparently, 'Belarus and her balloon' would never find him there, the big Russian had told England. England had tried to entice Ivan out but had failed, a trail of custard creams had not worked.

"Aw, the poor boy," the woman called 'Shirl' said.

All the Nations and the Secret Service men all gaped at her.

"It's been terrible," England told them all. At first, he'd thought the rumbling he'd heard during the night was the immersion heater. Or underground trains. Or someone with a pneumatic drill outside. He'd found purely by accident that it was actually Russia's snoring. And then there was the sound of a balalaika and Slavic folk songs which told of invading Frenchmen dying in large numbers (this particularly seemed to upset France who could speak some Russian). There was also Russia's insistence on reading out the horoscopes from Woman's Own magazines.

What was really worrying was that England's horoscope always predicted some dreadfully gory death.

"How long has it been?" Spain asked. He actually looked sympathetic.

"Twenty minutes," England replied, looking at the office clock.

"No, I mean since Russia started living in your cupboard?"

"Two days."

"Ha! That is nothing! I lived with him for two centuries!" Lithuania exclaimed.

England shook his head. No wonder the poor Baltic was a heap of nerves. "But you didn't have France as well. And America. And Sealand."

"Sealand is your son. You should step up as a father," Spain told him.

England shook his head, and began to say, "Sweden and Finland said er…" he then corrected himself when he saw the humans looking at him in puzzlement. He forgot they weren't supposed to use Nation names in front of humans. "Er Tino and Berwald have dumped Peter with me. He's finally been expelled from his school for buggering off during a school trip. His tenth school in two years!"

"Disgraceful."

"You will have to home school him." Someone said the dreaded words England was afraid of. He'd had a hysterical screaming match over the telephone with Finland and Sweden about this.

"He's actually setting up his own business," England said with some trepidation.

"Doing what?" Germany asked, with some suspicion. He'd already been stung by Prussia and Denmark's attempts at being business owners. He was still paying off their debts - mainly disgruntled taxi customers who were not happy at being dragged around London for hours instead of being taken straight to their destination.

"I don't know but it seems to involve the purchase of a lot of icing sugar and eggs," England replied.

"You're not… you're not… baking again are you?" one of the CIA men asked.

One of his colleagues drew his gun.

"He has been banned from baking for one hundred years by order of the United Nations Security Council," Germany told one of the hairdressers who was about to ask.

"The world will never know how my new recipe for lemon drizzle cake turns out," England lamented.

"Thank God," someone said and crossed themselves.

"All I can say is thank God he didn't get on Great British Bake Off," Poland said.

"What happened there then?" Spain asked England.

England shook his head, "I don't want to talk about it," he said. In actual fact he had failed the psychological test and was deemed too 'unstable' to take part. He was still smarting over this.

"Arthur used to go to school on a Nazgul," someone said with glee, probably Spain, but England couldn't catch who it was.

"That's a lie!" England said. "It might have been a dragon though…"

"You're a weird person," Germany said.

"Talking of dragons…" England began to say.

"Which we weren't."

"Stop trying to change the subject."

"Yes, you have a lot to answer for."

"…I wonder if it's Mr Ping who helped Mr Panda escape?" England concluded.

"You are obsessed with Mr Panda," Germany said.

"He swore to exact his vengeance on me," England replied.

"Mr Panda is a wanted bear," a CIA man told one of the zoo people.

"I want to know what this person here is going to do about that Mr Bonnefoy who ruined our businesses!" One of the hairdressers said.

"I will never be invited back to a rodeo again, thanks to Bonnefoy," one of the gay rodeo riders said.

England had no idea what on earth France had done to the gay rodeo guy. "Well you'll all be pleased to know that Francis is actually under house arrest. In effect he has one of those charming ankle bracelet affairs on and is not allowed out after 6.00 pm or before 9.00 am."

"No, that does not reassure me," Germany said. Italy nodded next to him, looking at the German with soppy eyes. "He managed to ruin my car and my life between the hours of 9.00 am and 6.00 pm."

"He seems to operate within ordinary working hours anyway for ruining lives," Someone else said.

England nodded at this.

Austria pointed his pen at England, "Why are you nodding, Arthur? You're party to all this!"

"Don't point your bloody pen at me! Oh, there's Russia again!" England said suddenly.

Everybody dived back under their chairs.

"I'm sure that's Mr Panda with him!" England added.

"You're obsessed," Germany said.

Toris actually got up from his chair and peered out of the said window, "I can't see him. Or Mr Panda. Are you sure?"

"Panda sent me a series of text messages earlier," England told them.

"Stop being ridiculous, Arthur. Why is everything about you?" Austria asked.

"Well seeing as you lot are talking about me…" England said, he peered at his phone and read the series of messages: "Ah here we are. Obviously it's an unknown number," England said and began reading out the messages, "I'm gong to kid you, bong you, no, ducking autocorrect, fucking autocorrect, gong you, going to dick you, no kick you, no kill you… I'm going to kid you…" England read all this out.

"Are you having some kind of fit, Arthur?" Spain asked.

Romano got up and snatched the phone off England. "Whoever this is, is hilarious. He says he's going to kill you. Autocorrect is great isn't it?"

"That's what I thought!" England said. "Well actually that's what Alfred said when he read it out to me." England winced at the memory when America had bounced in, took the phone off England and cheerily read out that someone was vowing to kill him and then handed it back.

"That's nothing," Romano said and threw the phone back at England.

"What about this… You're a dear mum… deerman, dear clan, dear fan… dead man?" England read out. He was actually hoping for some advice from his fellow Nations. He wasn't going to get it. "At least the put the apostrophe in the correct place. I would hate to be murdered by someone with poor grammar."

"I think someone needs to go out and buy a more simple phone," Austria replied and held up his own ancient brick-like contraption.

Romano's eyes widened, "You were always a cheapskate."

"Ja, even I have a more up to date phone so that I can get my emails," Germany agreed.

There was a cacophony as everyone compared phones. England stood up and edged towards the door. He managed to get it open while his fellow 'patients' were arguing about the pros and cons of apple and android (England had no idea what fruit or robots had to do with this) but was stopped in his tracks by a very large dragon's head.

This head was also attached to a dragon body, just to be clear. It wasn't disembodied.

He leapt back and slammed the door too forcefully as Germany looked up. "Were you trying to escape?" the German asked.

"Me? Never? Austria.. I mean er Roderich… there's a dragon outside your office."

"Don't be ridiculous," Austria countered. "You're delusional."

"I'll deal with this," Germany said, striding over to the door.

England stepped back, "Be my guest, but don't blame me when you get incinerated," he said.

Germany flung open the door… to reveal a rather short cleaner in a long coat that reached the floor, wearing a hoodie that obscured their face, pushing a vacuum cleaner.

"There!" Germany declared. "Nothing! No dragon, just the poor little cleaning lady," he said as the cleaner disappeared with their vacuum around the corner.

England frowned.

"You're so brave, Luddy," Italy said, flinging his arms around the German.

"That was Mr Panda," England said, "Or I'm a Dutchman."

There was further arguing over this.

"You're an idiot!"

"Dumkopf!"

"Moron!"

"Blaming a poor little cleaning lady!"

"He should be thrown in prison!"

"Well I think Arthur's okay…" came a quiet voice from the back. Canada had barely spoken a word until now. "And it's not his fault if Mr Kumajiro is a nefarious super-villain in league with an equally nefarious bear."

Nobody listened.

It had only been when one of the CIA men got hysterical thinking one of England's scones had escaped from a tin (England hadn't actually taken any baking seeing as he was banned from using the cooker, weighing scales, or mixer) that England had been able to escape amid the panic.

It had been interesting to see a hardened CIA operative crying over a moving biscuit tin. England suspected it was an undercover fairy getting restless in there. Tinkerbell had been a useful double agent in the war and biscuit tins were her favourite hideout. England surmised Tinks was there spying for her new mistress, Hungary.

* * *

Back to the present...

So, those idiots had been no use at all. The therapy had done him no use. And he never got a cup of tea (or biscuits).

However, England was now free to do as he liked for five whole days. He smiled to himself as the hills of South Wales came into view.

"Ah how green is my valley?" He said to himself.

Not very. He looked in the rear view mirror again and was distressed to see the same horrendou following.

Some serious diversionary tactics were required to throw off his pursuers...

 **Next Chapter.. a lovely relaxing holiday in Wales.**


	53. How Green is my Valley

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: ShadowSnowflake13, nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 53 - How Green is my Valley**

After doubling back through various Welsh villages and towns - none of which England could pronounce and going past the 'Dr Who Experience' no less than four times to shake off his 'pursuers', he finally arrived at the holiday cottage.

His beloved Bentley trundled up a mud path - in fact, it was generous to call it a path. There was a sheep at the end which stared at him balefully in the rain that began to fall.

The sign at the end of the 'driveway' said 'Primrose Cottage'. England gritted his teeth and parked the Bentley outside the cottage. He noted with annoyance that it appeared that his Welsh brother Bryn had not even cut the grass.

He sighed, got out of the car, dragged his battered ('vintage') suitcase out of the back seat and pulled on his cagoule.

"Yo! You look like Paddington Bear!" came an annoying voice as England discarded his leather brogues and put on his wellington boots.

The black 4x4 vehicle which had been following him since the M4 motorway almost ran him over. Mud splattered the Englishman.

"Damn you!" He yelled.

"Ha! Where did you go, man? Were you lost? We followed you through some crazy ass places. What in Lincoln's name was that village back there?" America (for it was he) attempted to yell a Welsh name and failed.

Sealand jumped out of the passenger side. "You forgot us, Dad," he told England.

England gritted his teeth, "No, I didn't," he replied.

"Wow this is amazing!" America said, looking at the cottage.

"It's rather special isn't it?" England said proudly.

"I've never seen such a dump!" America continued.

"I can't believe you still have this place, Dad," Sealand said, clumping towards the cottage. "Did you have electricity put in yet or is it still those crap oil lamps?"

"What? No electricity? He's joking right?" America asked, turning to England.

"I never asked you to come. So why don't you toddle off back to jolly old London Town?" England replied.

America ignored him and strode up to the house. "I thought you said you had a quaint cottage in the country?" He said.

"Look, I didn't ask you two to come here…"

"I didn't want to come, honestly," Sealand said. "It was his idea. He didn't want to stay in your house on his own cos he thinks it's haunted."

"That's just Russia, you bloody fools," England said, exasperated.

"Nyet, it is not. I am here!" A voice said.

England jumped. "Oh bloody hell."

"Belarus will never find me here," Russia confided.

"Why in God's name…?"

"He didn't want to stay either. Your house is seriously creepy, Dad," Sealand said.

"Da, it is. I like it," Russia said and strode after America towards the house. "This looks really nice," he was heard saying. "It reminds me a little of Stalingrad…" Russia added looking at the loose shingles on the roof, the crumbling masonry and the decrepit air.

England growled. "Any other bloody Nations hiding in that car?" he asked Sealand, who was pulling on his own wellies and bright orange cagoule. (Sealand had been subjected to holidays in Wales before.)

"No dude," Sealand said. England hated it when he called him dude. He winced.

"So you left Francis on his own?" England asked. He picked Sealand up by his lapels and shook him. "Do you have any idea what he could do?' Remember the last time he was left alone? He turned my house into a brothel!"

Unfortunately, at that moment another vehicle pulled up - a large, black sinister looking van with blacked-out windows.

A large man in a dark suit, wearing sunglasses (incongruous in South Wales, England thought, and also unnecessary) got out. The man opened one of the rear doors and France fell out, clutching a bottle of red wine (half empty). France looked drunker than normal. He was also grief-stricken, England saw.

"What's wrong, Francis? Have you lost your sex appeal? Have you finally realised that you have a drink problem? Have you realised that your bloody President Macron is not 'sexy'?"

"Johnny! He is gone!" France wailed from the ground. He then got up, having realised he was laying in a puddle.

"Johnny?" England was baffled.

"Hallyday. He was so beautiful!"

England did not have a clue what he was saying, but shoved him off when the Frenchman tried to embrace him. "Get off me, you bloody pervert!"

"Are we getting in this place or not?" America asked. He nodded at the big suited man, who had been joined by a colleague.

"Sir!" The two big men saluted America.

Two more CIA men, England realised.

England sighed and took out the key which said on the tag 'Primrose Cottage'. There were no primroses anywhere in sight.

He put the key in the lock, turned it and it promptly snapped off. "Damn and blast," the Englishman swore. This was not going well.

"Can we go home?" Sealand sounded delighted.

England gritted his teeth as everyone crowded around (apart from France who was in mourning and crying on a CIA agent's shoulder about "gay and beautiful Johnny").

"Everyone just back off!" England yelled as they all began to argue about the best way to extricate a key from a lock.

Sealand, who claimed to be an expert lockpick, failed.

America and his toy plastic gun failed.

England and his toothpick and then screwdriver with blue-tac stuck on the end, also failed to get the broken pieces of key out.

Russia, who had disappeared to chat with the sheep at the end of the drive, finally solved their dilemma by throwing himself at the door which gave itself up with barely a fight.

England sighed as he walked through the Russia-shaped hole in the door.

"This is really something…" America said, walking in after him.

England ignored him and began filling the kettle for a much needed cup of tea. He was pleased to note that he'd left teabags and basic provisions last time he was there. But he'd forgotten to buy milk. He debated going off to the local village to stock up and perhaps keep driving and leaving these morons here.

"The lights don't work!" America moaned.

"No electricity," England said, and went outside, picked up some logs, brought them in and loaded them into the wood-burning stove. He cast around for matches. He realised if he couldn't get this lit then there would be no tea.

"This is a joke right?" America said. "Have we just gone back in time two centuries?"

"Get used to it," Sealand told America. "No wifi either," the boy added.

"Noooooooo!" America was bereft.

Almost as bereft as France who sat at the wooden table, nursing his bottle of wine, dressed in a fetching bright pink poncho and tight flowery blouse that looked like a woman's, holding a picture of some French singer he was crying over.

"Pull yourself together, Francis." England said as he searched for matches.

"This is prehistoric," America said, watching England finally light the stove. "It's worse. It's medieval."

King Henry nodded, sniffing. He was coming down with a cold and England had given him a bottle of cough medicine which the dead King seemed to have a growing addiction for.

"Welcome to the dark ages," Sealand said, fiddling with his phone. "No mobile phone signal either."

America flung himself onto a kitchen chair, "Please tell me there's at least a bathroom?"

Russia came in. After doing a thorough survey of the 'cottage', he pronounced that it was 'great' and reminded him of home.

England picked up his car keys and headed out of the door. "I'm just going to get some milk, matches and firewood…" he called and hurried out, slamming the door on what looked like a scene from a Dickens novel.

Perhaps if he drove quickly he could get over the border and back home before they realised, he was thinking. Then he was stopped in his tracks by a very loud voice.

"I hope you're not trying to escape just as we arrive for the PARTAAAY!" Shouted the most annoying ex-Nation still alive.

It was Prussia, with Denmark in tow. They had somehow acquired a tiny Fiat car that was missing its bumper.

"I need to get some milk," England said with a sigh.

"We'll do it!" Denmark yelled ear-splittingly. England wondered if they were both deaf. It could be the only answer for them being so loud.

"Well… I er…"

"What a crazy dump!" Prussia said, looking at the cottage.

"How did you find me? And why are you here?" England asked.

"Your crazy ass brother told us. And we're here for the PARTAAAY!" Prussia yelled the last word in England's face.

England cursed whichever brother it was who had told the idiots that he was coming here. He suspected it was Wales, but it could have been Scotland. Damn them.

Denmark was cheerily taking England's wallet from him and getting back in their ramshackle vehicle. "Milk, beer, teabags, beer, hotdogs for Alfred, beer, wine for Francis, beer and just to be safe, more beer," the Dane said, turning on the engine which spluttered shamefully into life.

"Oh God…" England muttered.

Someone yelled from a window, "And vodka…"

"Why is he here?" Prussia muttered, getting in the car.

England didn't answer but trudged back inside, slamming the door.

Inside, America was singing 'Sweet Home Alabama' and smiling. England had no idea why. France was singing some louche French song that seemed to mention l'amor quite a lot which made England decidedly nervous. Sealand was running around trying to get a mobile 'signal' and muttering about his 'customers' on his 'Etsy shop' whatever the hell that was.

Then there was a knock on the door just as England thought the day could not get any worse.

Germany, in a bright yellow raincoat and equally yellow (but pristine) wellington boots stood there. Together with Italy, who was also in wellington boots and carrying an unfortunately rainbow umbrella.

"You think you can get away with not paying me for my damaged car, England?" The German asked.

Later…

"I call dibs on the good bedroom!" Prussia yelled, dumping a massive overnight bag on the living room floor.

"Nah, man, that's not fair!" America whined. "I'm the most awesomest superpower and I saved all your asses, I should get to choose!"

"Ve, but I want to sleep in the big bed with Luddy-kins!" Italy said, pouting. 'Luddy-kins' winced, whether at the nickname or Italy's overall statement is unsure.

"It's my bloody house!" Arthur shouted, but was drowned out by the general din as the other seven Nations, two CIA men, one dead king and five kittens made themselves at home.

France shrugged, casual as ever. "I do not mind where I sleep, non? I 'ave slept in worst places than zis, mon ami. Zere was zis one motel in Barcelona where they did not have pillows and ze phone was not plugged in... I spent two nights zere, even after my ladyfriend complained about ze mice and went back to her husband. Ah, memories..."

England shuddered.

"Well, I think this is alright," Russia chirped. England jumped; he hadn't known the big Russian, who was surprisingly light on his feet, was standing behind him. "I have checked and there is only one leak in the roof. And most of the windows open!" He looked amazed. "Yes, this is very good. I am going to change into my shorts... I may even sleep outside if the weather stays warm!" He ambled off. England looked out of the window, where rain was lashing down and the trees looked close to toppling over from the gale force winds. He wondered whether Russia was on the same planet as the rest of them.

England felt a tug on his sleeve, and turned around. "Arthur, I don't like this. I want to go home." King Henry sniffled. "I think I have a cold coming on."

"You're bloody dead! Why don't you take some of your Benylin and shut up?"

"Don't you oppress me!" Henry looked close to tears. America clapped him on the shoulder as he walked past with Jeff the kitten on his head, chattering about which of his Batman posters he was going to put on the wall, and Henry almost fell over.

"Okay, this is getting to be ridiculous," England muttered. He grabbed a footstool and, walking with purpose, placed it in the centre of the room and stood on it, wobbling a bit on the uneven surface. Denmark, strangely, reached out an arm and steadied him. "Erm, excuse me!" England shouted. No one took any notice. "Everyone? Please, I have something to say!"

Luckily for England's voicebox, America reappeared at this point and noticed him. "Yo dudes, my main man Artie has something to say!" He yelled at the top of his voice. The room fell silent.

"Erm yes, Alfred, thanks for that. Okay, well, you may have all noticed that there are not enough beds to fit all of us. There are-" England did a quick headcount "-eleven of us here, counting King Henry and the two CIA men. There are two beds. One of them is a double, but it's still not enough. Fortunately, we do have couches and an inflatable mattress and there is a tent in the shed, and I suppose someone could sleep in one of the cars..." England chewed his lip. It still didn't seem like enough.

Italy raised his hand. England pointed at him. "Can't King Henry just go away? Ve, my old emperors do that when they visit me, they go back to their ghost world!"

England sighed. "You'd think, wouldn't you." Henry sniffled. "So, that leaves a decision to be made. Of course everyone will want a bed, but if anyone wants to volunteer to sleep elsewhere that would help a lot." England gritted his teeth, thinking 'it's my bloody bed and my bloody house and if anyone's going to sleep in it, it's bloody me.'

One of the CIA men ("Marcel", England thought, but he neither knew nor cared at this point) put his hand up. "Myself and my colleague will sleep in our van. Security reasons, Kirkland, you understand."

"Yes, well," England said, still annoyed at being called 'Kirkland'.

"Ooh, ooh!" Denmark jumped up in the air, his hair standing on end. "Can I sleep in the bath? I love baths!"

"Er, well, I suppose so..."

"YES."

And so, after some further negotiations and a game of rock-paper-scissors (England was unsure who suggested this method of decision-making, but he wished death on them), everyone's sleeping places had been decided.

The CIA men slept in their van, and were probably the most comfortable of the lot (in England's eyes.) The van was a sound structure, had reliable heating, and even had cupholders and a stereo.

Italy got his wish and slept in the "big bed" with Germany; both of them turned out to be suspiciously good at rock-paper-scissors. England would have been more bitter about this if he hadn't noticed the leak beginning to develop in the master bedroom's ceiling.

Alfred, somehow, got Sealand's old bed - but had to share it with five kittens who wouldn't leave him alone.

Prussia and France got the couches.

Denmark slept in the bath, and was inordinately pleased about it. On the floor of the bathroom beside the Dane was Sealand, wrapped in a SpongeBob SquarePants duvet, holding his mobile phone next to the big Dane's head of spiky hair. It was the only way he could get a mobile signal, without which he could not operate his many online businesses.

So that left...

"Bloody hell, Henry, do you have to sleep with your crown on?" England exclaimed for the fifth time, having been speared in the back for the eighth time by his former monarch's ever-present headpiece.

"Someone might steal it, Arthur! You don't know!" Henry whimpered. "It's very cold in here... I think I should go in the middle. The tent roof is drooping on my side. I can't feel my toes."

"Why don't you do us all a favour and bloody dissipate, then?" Arthur asked, burying his face in his pillow.

"I don't think you should talk to your king in this way, England," Russia admonished him. Russia, it turned out, wore a scarf and his big boots to bed. He was also wearing a Hawaiian shirt and some exercise shorts that had seen better days. England had concluded that Russia was actually dressed so badly, he had managed to dress well.

"And you're an expert on this, are you? I suppose your dead bosses visit you all the time?" England wished, not for the first time, that someone had been able to get the air mattress to inflate. Though he would have had to sleep in the house then, and he didn't like the idea of sleeping in the same room as France and Prussia - or America and his kitten menagerie for that matter. His only other choice was disturbing Germany and Italy and likely seeing something he really didn't want to. He shuddered and burrowed deeper into his sleeping bag.

"Da, they do! Just last week Alexander the First dropped in for tea. He told me I should invade France because they were all traitors and he left crumbs on the table. It was very bad, not how his Babushka raised him at all." Russia shook his head.

"Well that's disturbing," England said.

The 'break' was going to get more disturbing…

 **Note: Benylin is a cough medicine here in the UK.**


	54. Stormy Weather

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 54 - Stormy Weather**

England did not appreciate being woken up at 5.00 am after only two hours sleep by having an American shoving a tin - yes, tin of disappointing tea into his hand (America could not find the mugs apparently).

"Yo! Get up Artie dude. We need you to light the stove thingy." America said.

England frowned, tasted the tea, found it to be largely milk and cold.

He was wet. Probably wetter than the 'tea'. It was raining in through the canvas roof. Russia slept on, hugging his faucet pipe and twitching like a dog in his sleep as if he were chasing rabbits. He looked dry. King Henry was also asleep - but no doubt drugged up from the cough medicine.

"I hate you all," England muttered.

Russia grunted something and England leapt out of the tent.

It was still raining. Of course it was. Alfred kindly held a rainbow umbrella over him as they ran into the house.

"Why's this a cottage?" Alfred asked him.

"Why can't you just light the bloody stove?" England asked him.

"Why don't you have electricity?" America countered.

"Why don't you bugger off back to Washington?"

"Washington, Tyne and Wear?" Sealand asked, poking his head around the door.

"No, you idiot child!" England shouted. He began rearranging the logs and trying to light the stove.

"Because that would be cruel," Sealand told America.

"How come you're up?" America asked him.

"NASDAQ's just opened," Sealand replied.

England and America exchanged looks. Neither had a clue what Sealand was talking about.

"I've got stocks at an all time high, I have to sell but there's no signal. It cuts out every time Uncle Den moves his head! Then there's my dealer in Dubai who's got some gold…" Sealand shook his head and walked away talking to himself. "I'm losing millions. I made millions while you lot slept and now I'm losing millions…"

"I think that kid's been sniffing the baking powder again," America said to England.

England had more pressing worries. He could not get the stove to light and he needed tea. There was no way he could survive a weekend with these idiots without tea.

"You should pour petrol on it," America said in his most wise voice.

England stared at him, "Out of all the stupid things I've ever heard you say - and that includes 'let's go to the theatre Abe', this is about the stupidest."

America just shrugged, "I think you're afraid to lose your eyebrows. Again."

"Yes, who can forget the last time you aided me with a spot of fire-lighting?"

"How was I to know that your home-made shortbread would go up like a Chinese fire cracker?"

England was still trying to light a match and going through a box pretty quickly. He stopped and turned to America, "Talking of Chinese… you know, Alfred, I really am worried…"

"Yeah so am I. This place is the pits, man."

"No, I mean about Mr Panda…"

"Why? Is he here?"

"No I mean I'm sure he's trying to kill me…"

"To be honest, man, none of us are happy about the state of this place…"

"He's not bloody here, Alfred!"

"So why's he trying to kill you?"

"Keep up, Alfred! Because I exposed him."

"Jeez, man. You shouldn't go round pulling down people's pants. Especially deranged bears' pants. Leave that to France. He has far more experience than you."

"No, not like that. I exposed him as the villain behind the whole thing."

"You did?"

"Yes. And now he's trying to kill me."

"He is?"

England seriously wondered if America had short-term memory loss. "I showed you the bloody text he sent me, you ass."

"Oh yeah. Cool guy."

England wondered if America really wanted him dead. He smacked him around the head, "Go get my cigarette lighter out of the car."

"Right-o."

"What?"

"I'm trying out my Cockney accent."

"Don't."

The rest of the house seemed eerily quiet. Only the odd snoring sounds and drips into buckets from the leaking roof could be heard. England still could not work out why America had woken him up with a cold cup of tea just so he could light the stove to make himself a cup of tea.

He was about to ask when the kitchen door opened. England hoped it wasn't France in his flimsy silk dressing gown. It wasn't. It was Germany in his pyjamas, his hair greased back. England wondered how the German could look so put together at that time in the morning.

"Why are you shouting, England? It sounds like World War 3!"

"I don't think you should be talking about war, Germany." England warned. "Anyway, I'm trying to light this stove."

"Matches?"

"Oh I never thought of that! What a genius you are. I've been pointlessly banging my head against this cupboard for an hour thinking that will light it. What an idiot I am."

"Sarcasm is really the lowest form of wit."

England handed him the matchbox. "Go on then, Herr German-pants." (England felt some shame at that insult. It wasn't up to his usual standards.)

America skidded back into the kitchen, looked at Germany lighting the stove and handed England an ABBA CD.

"I'm hardly going to be able to light the stove with that, am I?"

"Oh yes, I forgot. You said cigarette lighter…"

Germany stepped back, "There…" he said triumphantly as the stove roared into life. "Although I must say, I worry about you and naked flames, England," he said and left.

"Hahaha, naked…" America sniggered.

England shook his head, sticking up two fingers at the retreating German's back. He filled the kettle and placed it on the stove and then watched in horror as America demonstrated why he was so rubbish at making a cup of tea.

"Don't put the bloody milk in first, you imbecile!" He yelled.

America halted, his hand holding a bottle of milk hanging mid-air. "Is it water first?"

"It's teabag, water, milk. In that order. How many times do I have to tell you?"

* * *

One hour later, England was sat at the kitchen table drinking tea (made by America and only just passing muster) and eating a bacon sandwich. As it involved just bread and did not matter how crispy (burnt) the bacon was, bacon sandwiches were pretty much the only thing England could reliably cook.

It was still raining. England had finally got himself dressed (he felt uncommonly exposed being in his pyjamas in the kitchen, particularly a kitchen shared with so many Nations). For some reason the only radio station he could pick up was a Welsh one and so was unintelligible (to him anyway, he was ashamed to admit that he had never learned Welsh).

Italy stumbled in, wearing precisely nothing, put on a pot of coffee to heat on the stove and yawned. "Ve England, this radio station is crazy! What are they saying?"

"It's Welsh. Can you put on some clothes, please?"

"Ve, it is cold isn't it?" The Italian said, his eyes closed. But he didn't attempt to cover himself. He promptly made himself and presumably Germany, two cups of coffee and left.

England noted that America, having got him up at such an ungodly hour, had now gone back to sleep. He thought about getting the idiot up but didn't have the energy. So he did the crossword. Unfortunately, the answers in the Times crossword from the day before all seemed to point to some terrible fate and also seemed to indicate an awful few days in store.

"Precipitation, flooding, ramshackle, hovel, debauchery, drunken, grim, assassin, liquidator…" England read out some of the answers with a sinking stomach.

He almost jumped out of his chair when a hand rested on his shoulder. He was about to fling them over his shoulder when he realised it was Italy.

"Ve! I have a liquidator!" The Italian said cheerily. Now dressed.

"Liquidiser, Feli, liquidiser." Germany corrected.

"You little moron…" England muttered. He looked around. Actually most of the Nations were now awake and up and moving around in their own imitable way.

"It's still raining! What a crap country this is!" Prussia shouted.

"I'm not getting out of my onesie. I don't see the point." Denmark told someone.

"I made Artie dude a cup of tea and he made me make it again 12 times!" America was telling someone who obviously sounded sympathetic.

France was saying, "I know, mon cher. Eet eez terrible, he does not understand how such things can cut you to ze bone. It took me over a century to make a perfect cup of tea."

"And you never managed it, did you?" England shouted through. He was still shaken by the crossword answers. He quickly covered it up when the other Nations came stampeding in like cattle and took over his kitchen.

* * *

Breakfast over and buckets of rainwater emptied, the Nations were sat around moaning, complaining or just generally trying to get a mobile signal. There was sudden silence though when Russia entered the kitchen.

"The sheep at the end of the lane says that the rain will stop later," the Russian announced, shaking himself like a dog and thus soaking the floor. He had eschewed the use of Italy's rainbow umbrella saying that 'Soviet soldiers do not need an umbrella'. Indeed, he was dressed in military gear and looked as if he were going to war.

"Board games!" America yelled.

"It's not Christmas, Alfred," England said. He was busy washing up. France, disturbingly dressed in a pink apron was drying.

"So?"

"I'm bored alright," Sealand sighed, still holding his phone next to Denmark's hair. "Don't move Uncle Den, it's the only way I can get a signal."

"Cool!" Denmark said and burped. It was 11 in the morning and the Dane was already drunk. It was inspirational, Prussia thought.

"I'm not playing," Italy told them. He was making the largest pot of pasta anyone had ever seen. England wondered if the Italian was expecting more Nations to turn up. "My pasta has won awards," the Italian told England.

"Ja, for killing the most people," Prussia interjected.

Italy spun round with a large spoon in his hand. He was usually the one who burst into tears if anyone insulted him but he could actually get angry if anyone insulted his cooking. "Che?" He asked, brandishing his spoon which dripped bolognese sauce all over the floor. "This recipe was handed down by Grandpa Rome!"

"Italy calm down. He was joking," Germany said, giving Prussia a shove. "Let's all play this board game…" he added, trying to diffuse the situation.

"You're dripping on my floor," England remonstrated with Italy.

"Ah Senor Inghilterra, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me!"

France began wiping the floor with a piece of rag.

"Is that my bloody shirt?" England asked the Frenchman.

France turned to England, "Zis shirt is only fit for scrubbing floors. You need a makeover, mon cher."

"Operation!" America yelled.

"I'll give him a bloody operation," England muttered, scrubbing a frying pan aggressively.

"Nein, last time I played it was too stressful," Germany said, his arms crossed.

"I like it. I like pulling bits of organs out of people," Russia declared happily, pulling off his huge boots.

"Buckeroo!" America shouted, putting 'Operation' away quickly.

"I find that game disturbing," Germany said.

"I know a game we can play!" Russia said.

America quickly produced another, "Scrabble."

"Except only I can spell. Also what happens when you lot start putting words down in your own languages?" England pointed out. "Remember last Christmas at Poland's house? It was carnage. Lithuania had to call the Police. This is the reason I'm staying home this Christmas. Alone," England added the last word emphatically.

"Oh yes that was an amazing weekend!" America's eyes shone with the memory. "Way better than going to Artie's and watching the Queen and listening to boring carols. Did Pol ever get that foam out of his carpet?" America said.

"Nyet," Russia said. "I gave him the number of a good carpet cleaner I know who is good with bloodstains. But the man has retired, or something…. I was not invited to Polska's Christmas weekend party."

"But you turned up anyway," Germany pointed out.

"Da. With my yak!" Russia exclaimed.

"It crapped on the lawn," England said, shuddering. "I bet it was a bugger to get that lawn right after that."

"I offered to clean up!" Russia pointed out.

"But not with dynamite surely?" Germany asked.

"It worked!"

"Yes but it left holes in the lawn that looked as if giant moles had been through."

"I know!" Russia did not seem to think this was a problem.

"Monopoly!" America said, bringing out the game.

"A game that underscores the capitalist society exploiting the workers," Russia said.

"And building houses!" America said and began setting the game up.

"I'm not playing," England said quickly, putting down his dishcloth. It was best to put his foot down with a firm hand straight away.

"I will be ze racing car," France said.

"No! I'm always the car! Tell him Artie!" America wailed. But England had already headed outside with a packet of fags and a mug of very strong tea (with two sugars - he needed it) in a Welsh dragon mug that said I 'heart' Cardiff United on it.

* * *

In the normal way of things Russia of course should not have won with just Old Kent Road, being the cheapest rental of all the Monopoly properties, however, nobody had dared refuse the extortionate rent he charged… And so just an hour after the game had started, the game finished.

France had played the game by going around the board in reverse - much to Germany's wrath.

Germany had taken hold of the rule book and was loudly remonstrating with all of them about how they were all breaking the rules (France - see above; America - for putting hotels on Mayfair before he'd even bought Mayfair or any houses; Prussia - for hitting France with his battleship; Denmark - for attempting to use a full size can of Carlsberg as a playing piece). Sealand had refused to play, telling them that it would have been 'like taking candy from a baby'.

England was called back inside when Russia began chasing Prussia around the cottage with his miniature piece of lead piping he'd stolen from a Cluedo game and a full size piece of lead piping after the Prussian had picked up a 'community chest' and told Russia to go to Pall Mall. Russia had, inexplicably, taken great umbrage at this. Perhaps the Russian thought that this was some euphemism cast on his sexuality?

"Can we all stop chasing each other around, please?" England yelled.

France sidled up to England, "So mon cher, can you test me on my Highway Code?"

"Oh God, why me?"

"Cos you're English, dude," America said as Prussia and Russia skidded past them again.

"Please tell me you haven't put in for your bloody driving test again?" England asked.

"Of course I have. I need zat car zat mon Government have promised me," France replied.

"That was your last government. What about zis, I mean, this Government?"

"Que?"

"What about Macron?" England said, slowly.

"Ah oui, he is so gorgeous."

"No, you silly French tart, I mean now you have a new President, how do you know you're still going to get that car?"

"You are right, Anglais. Avec zis new President, who is so young and gullible, I may never have to pay zem back for everything zat I have done! You are so clever!" France kissed him on the cheek and waltzed off happily, dodging past Russia who was storming up and down trying to find Prussia, who in turn was hiding behind some curtains - the most obvious place. Russia was obviously no good at hide and seek and when America was about to point this out, England shushed him.

Twenty minutes later, France returned with a hangdog expression. In fact, he looked as if he'd been crying. "Mon President says I must pass my driving test to be allowed to drive again and zat you, mon cher, have not fulfilled your end of ze bargain."

"Don't start talking about my end, you scoundrel."

"How did you get a signal?" America asked France.

"Ze boy, Peter, got a signal. He is stood outside next to ze CIA van. I zink zay have ze technology, non?"

America slapped his forehead and ran out with his various gadgets.

England brewed a pot of tea, sat down at the table, shoved Denmark out of the way - the Dane was playing some sort of make-believe game where the Monopoly pieces were invading Piccadilly. He told England it had been the next target in the war of the Vikings versus the Britons, but they hadn't got round to it, they'd been too busy buying up souvenirs and then they'd had to go home in time for tea.

England ignored him and took the book from France with an air of defeat. "We'll start with the easy ones."

"Ah I adore you, mon cher."

"Shut up." He flicked through the book and then showed France a picture of a white circle with a red border with the number '40' in the middle. "Well?"

France sighed and stared at the picture, "It means you have to be over 40 years old to go on zis road."

England stared at him, "Are you deliberately being stupid?"

"I know I know!" Denmark put his hand up. "It means you have to be going over 40 kilometres per hour to go on this road." He turned to France in triumph.

England twitched at the word 'kilometres'. He growled at the Dane, "Are you high? Of course it doesn't!" He held up another. A red circle with a white horizontal line. "This is very important." He told them.

"It means… there is a barber in town." France replied.

"What? How?"

"He's right, man. That's the universal sign for a barber." Denmark said, scratching his head.

"NO!" England yelled at them.

"I think you'll find it is," Denmark argued.

"It's 'no entry'!"

"To where?" France asked, bewildered.

"Are you bloody drunk? To the bloody road!"

"Ah. That makes no sense."

"You make no sense," England told him.

"What about this one?" He showed the Frenchman a simple sign showing traffic lights - at red. "This is easy. If you don't get this, you should give up driving forever."

France screwed up his eyes, thinking hard.

Italy, who was busy stirring his pot of pasta said, "Easy! It means you should stop and never go again and it is time to cry!"

England looked at the Italian, "You're almost right…"

"Well done, Feli," Germany said absent-mindedly. He was sat at the end of the table trying to put the Monopoly board items back in a sensible manner and had been appalled to find buttons, a piece of chewing gum and plastic soldiers thrown in willy-nilly.

England showed him another sign - a black car and a red car side by side. "And no it doesn't mean no black or red cars!"

Denmark put his hand up as if he were in school, "It means you can't race red cars."

Germany shook his head in disgust. "And you call yourself a taxi driver," he said.

"No, I don't."

Italy waved a spoon at them, "It means that black cars are boring and you should only drive red cars."

"You're a fool," Denmark told him.

Italy's lip trembled, "No, I'm not. You are." He said with as much courage as he could muster.

Denmark reached across and hit the Italian with his own bolognese sauce covered spoon, leaving a smear on the Italian's head.

"No over-taking," England told them.

"I was going to say that," Germany said.

"Really? Then you bloody test the moron," England replied, handing Germany the book.

Germany sighed, "You need flashcards," Germany told the Frenchman, who was in turn not listening to a word, "You should be tested everyday for ten minutes and perhaps England could produce a subliminal tape for you to listen to while you sleep," Germany added.

"Why is this my responsibility?" England asked, appalled.

Germany didn't answer but flicked through the book, "These are similar to the German signs but are less efficient." He turned to France, who was messing with his hair, "France, you have driven in Germany. I know this. I had the misfortune of being behind you at some traffic lights in Dusseldorf once." He turned to England, "He mooned me," he explained.

France pouted and blew a kiss.

Germany showed him a sign that said 'Go', "We'll start with an easy one France, and then go up a level," he told the Frenchman.

"It means…

"It means GO GO GO GO GO!" America said, skidding into the kitchen.

"Well done, Alfred," England said. He turned to Germany, "I taught him to drive," he said. "He passed after the fourteenth test. And I didn't have to take valium."

"What?" America looked at them all. "No I mean the rain's stopped! We should all go go go!"

"Where?" Italy asked, wiping bolognese sauce off his head.

"To bother the native townspeople!" Denmark said with purpose and picked up his Viking helmet and rubber axe. "Pru!" He shouted, "We're rolling!"

 **Author's Notes:**

 **Obviously, England is using the UK's Highway Code here and the Monopoly game being 'played' is the UK edition.**


	55. Mr Blue Sky

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Eaglesfeather17,** **ihateslash604, ,** **nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 55 - Mr Blue Sky**

 **In a small seaside town in South Wales...**

"How did the young man get his head stuck in there, Sir?" the fireman asked England.

England sighed. It was just he and France who stood by as America, his head stuck fast inside a miniature windmill, moaned quietly.

"It's a long story…" England said as he watched the firemen get their tools out. He noted that the other Nations had scarpered.

* * *

It all began when they had all flung themselves in their respective vehicles and slammed down the tiny roads to the nearest 'town'. England felt sorry for the locals. He had tried to escape but unfortunately, France and Russia had sat in the back of his car. England had tried to ensure they both sat on the cellophane covering the vintage leather seats, but Russia had declared that the Allies hadn't won the war by being afraid of leather. There was nothing you could say to that.

Fortunately, the Russian did not drop anything on the leather. France was ordered, by England, to keep as much of his body off the seats and so sat in the passenger footwell. At least he was wearing pants today.

"Where are we going, mon cher?" France asked.

England looked in the rear view mirror and was dismayed to see Prussia and Denmark's car following in a black haze of exhaust smoke and following that was the CIA van.

"Why can't they bloody leave me alone?" He asked.

"I do not know, comrade," Russia said. "It must be very annoying to have people with you all the time like that. Following you around and going everywhere with you." Russia continued with no trace of irony in his voice.

"We're going to see the sea, France," England replied to France.

"La mer?"

"Mare? What are you on about you goon?"

"Can I sit on the seat, mon cher and look out of ze window?"

"No, stay down there. You know you're not allowed on the seat."

Russia, sat in the back seat, picking at the cellophane covers. "He is like your pet, da?"

England ignored him and drove on. Unfortunately, all the signs were in a mixture of Welsh and English and confused the Englishman. "Can you see a sign that says," here England paused and took a deep breath, "…Abertenbydyfi?" he said cautiously.

"I think he is having some kind of fit. I have seen this before. In the War and other places. When I have surprised someone," Russia said to France, leaning over the back of the passenger seat and staring at the crouching Frenchman.

France nodded, "Do you want me to drive, mon cher? You look odd."

England gritted his teeth and went round a roundabout three times. The vehicles following him stopped on the roundabout abruptly and Denmark wound down his window with creaking jerks. The window stopped halfway - at a 45 degree angle. The Dane stuck his head out and yelled, "Oi! England! What are you doing? There's a pub down there," the Dane helpfully pointed the way they had come.

Russia wound down his window and shouted back as they went past the Dane, "We know. We are going to see the sea!" He sounded like a kid on holiday with his parents.

A trail of traffic consisting of three lorries, four cars and a farm tractor pulling a trailer transporting sheep blocked the four exits of the roundabout.

An exchange of views commenced between some of the drivers, England and Denmark. (The CIA van containing America and Sealand - the latter charging his devices and using the CIA's wifi signal - headed off on the exit clearly signposted 'seafront' as America ordered them to find him a 'funfair, man'.)

"Get your stupid bloody crap car out of the way!" One of the lorry drivers yelled.

"Can you tell me the way to…" here England tried to say the name of the town again.

"…Is there anywhere we can get an ice-cream?" Prussia yelled.

"You can all bugger off back to England!" Shouted one of the car drivers.

"I say!" England exclaimed.

"That way!" Russia said. "Follow that black van. I could see young America in it."

"Damn…" England said and followed Russia's directions.

Denmark however had gotten out of his vehicle, and still dressed in his unicorn onesie, was remonstrating with a large lorry driver.

"I don't like your attitude," Prussia told the lorry driver, joining his friend.

Denmark nodded but was interested in the fact that the lorry had 'Carlsberg' emblazoned on it.

"Pru, look!" he said.

But Prussia was in full flow, "You lot make me sick. We didn't even bomb Wales in the war. Well not much. Not as much as London and Hull and well, with Hull it was an improvement."

"What?"

"I said…" Prussia was about to continue but Denmark was tugging on his sleeve.

"Dude Pru, look!" He said excitedly - almost jumping up and down. "Carlsberg…"

Pru did need look. "You get the beer, I'll get the sheep," he whispered.

* * *

"Dodgems!" France shouted, utterly delighted.

They were walking along the seafront at… wherever it was (England could still not pronounce it), still in wellington boots, raincoats and, in France's case, a rainbow poncho. Russia wore his scarf and told them it was 'tropical'.

'They' were England, France, Russia, America and two CIA men. Thankfully, Italy and Germany had not joined them. England was thankful for this small mercy. Apparently, Italy was making emergency pasta.

"That's for kids!" America yelled.

England nodded. It was. But it was also ideal for France's driving lesson.

"Come on, you French imbecile, get in," he said wearily and handed the bored-looking youth 'in charge' a handful of coins. "There, my good man."

"Please get in with me, mon cher," France pleaded.

"I don't bloody think so," England told him, wincing at the idea of being crammed in such a small space with the Frenchman, whether he was wearing his galoshes or not. It would be most unbecoming.

Russia stood with his huge size 14 booted foot up against the dodgem. "I think, England, that you should get in with Francis. He cannot be trusted."

"He can't bloody go anywhere with it!" England pointed at the low wooden border around the bumper car track.

Russia growled at him.

"Dude's right, dude," America said. "Anyway I'm off on the Big Wheel. Who's with me?"

"Where is Peter? Why isn't he with you?" England asked America as he felt himself being shoved into the dodgem with France.

"He said he had business to attend to," one of the CIA men told England as he left to follow America.

Russia stepped back as the dodgem was switched on. "Good luck," he told them.

"How long is this ride for?" England asked the bored teenager.

"15 minutes," the teenager said.

"Dear God."

* * *

"Drive drive drive!" Denmark yelled, his arms full of Carlsberg cans.

Pru did. They looked behind them at the utter scene of chaos and destruction.

It looked as if the four horsemen of the apocalypse had come to town and had a party.

There was a lorry driver shaking his fist at them, a half empty lorry with its doors hanging off, a very angry farmer and two cars stuck actually on the roundabout having had to swerve to avoid the herd of sheep roaming.

Pru gave Den a high-five. "Genius, just genius. Letting out those sheep."

"I know…" Denmark looked behind him at the backseat which was full of beer. The small car groaned as they sped away.

"Which way?"

"Back to Shitrose Cottage?"

"Ja!" Prussia replied and went in totally the wrong direction.

* * *

England would have been appalled to hear Primrose Cottage called such a name but at the moment he did not care about anything. He was more concerned about surviving this horrific ride.

France seemed incapable of driving the dodgem straight at all and they were now going round and round in a tight circle at speed.

Surely dodgems never used to go at such a dangerous speed? He could not recall it being so terrifying when he'd brought Sealand on the dodgems many years ago, although the young boy had insisted on driving and yelling 'Ahoy!' each time they had crashed into other children on the ride. England had almost had his head taken off by a large man whose child had burst into tears after Sealand's driving had hemmed them into the corner and Sealand had shouted 'pirates!' and jumped on the other child's dodgem.

"Just bloody well drive it straight, you loon!" England yelled at France.

"Eet eez difficult!"

"It's a bloody dodgem, you idiot."

"How much longer are we on this?" England asked Russia. He felt very very sick.

"I gave the boy another pound so that you can stay on for a bit longer," Russia said, watching them go, his eyes round with wonder.

England wrenched the wheel from France and forced the dodgem to go straight.

"Zis is terrible. Can we practise three point turns?"

"What for? We're in a bloody dodgem."

"Zat is not a very good attitude to have, mon cher."

"Just drive."

At least they had stopped going round and round.

But just as England thought he might just survive this particular fairground ride, he was almost jolted out of his seat by a slam from behind.

"Ooh lala! We have been rear-ended!" France shouted. He looked pleased.

England was sure he had whiplash as his head jerked forward. "Bloody hell!"

A very loud American voice yelled, "Come on Grandad, get a shifty on!"

"I bloody hate him sometimes," England told France.

France spun the dodgem around to try to face their foe.

But they were being shoved to the edge of the track. "Turn the bloody thing round, France," England shouted.

"Don't shout at me!"

England lowered his voice, "Turn us round."

"Que?"

England was sure the Frenchman was just buggering around.

At the edge of the track, Russia watched, picking sweets out of his lead piping and chewing them, his eyes wide. Two kittens (presumably Boris and Borislav or something - the others were in England's car) peeped out of an oversize pocket.

England bloody hoped the other kittens weren't still in his Bentley. The last time they'd been left in there it had been a proper carry-on and it had taken a week to get rid of the smell.

He thought seriously about getting a ten stone Rottweiller that he could train to attack the Nations on command. He went into a little reverie as France tried to turn the bumper car around and failed and they were rammed repeatedly from behind by America, who yelled "Oh yeah!" each time.

Could his life get any worse?

Yes it could.

* * *

A whole hour later...

"I bet I'm going to need a neck brace," England said as they walked along the promenade.

"What a dump," America said. He was eating candy floss.

They had extricated themselves from the bumper cars after a brain-crashing hour of going round and round. The extra time being bought by Russia, who thought he was doing them a favour and seemed to find the whole thing utterly fascinating.

He strode along with them, looking at America's candy floss with a mixture of deep suspicion and jealousy. He would have liked to try it (if America would share, which he wouldn't) but thought it looked weird.

France was complaining bitterly about the lack of decent coffee bars.

England wished they were back at the cottage.

"I went on the waltzer before I found you two and it was rubbish. Didn't even go round," America was telling them into between mouthfuls of candy floss.

"Did you pay the man?"

"No."

"Bingo."

"Where's dead dude anyway?" America asked.

"Who?" England was bewildered.

"Henry," America replied.

"I presume he's in the tent where Russia and I left him."

"I liked him," Russia said.

England was disturbed by the past tense and wondered what on earth the Russian could have done to the dead King.

But before he could ask, America interrupted, "Can we go on the big wheel?"

England looked at him and said, "You go on, you don't need me. I'm not your keeper."

"Actually, you are," France reminded him.

They'd come to the end of the 'promenade' or 'prom' as England called it, which had confused America and the funfair loomed ahead of them. 'Fun Fair' emblazoned on a rusty sign that clanged in the wind. It reminded England of a rather creepy Stephen King movie he'd watched in the cinema once with America - the latter had thought they'd gone to see a superhero movie and had subsequently hid under a seat. England found it weird that the American, although loving alien movies, guns, explosions and war movies, could not cope at all with horror films. As it was, England had not been bothered at all - largely due to his upbringing with his brother. Anyone who could cope with the sight of Scotland's sporran first thing in the morning was not easily scared.

"That doesn't look like fun to me," France remarked looking at the sign.

"Come on, guys!" America yelled, all raw enthusiasm. England hated him sometimes.

They trudged in.

* * *

Twenty minutes later…

"I told you that youth did not look as if he knew what he was doing," England told America.

They were sat at the top of the Ferris wheel. Stuck being the operative word. Nothing was moving. There were no other customers.

France had told them he had a 'fear of heights' and stood many feet below looking up. Russia, stood next to France, looked almost small from their lofty height and was chewing thoughtfully on America's candy floss.

England waved down at France, who moronically waved back. If this wasn't irritating enough, Prussia and Denmark strolled up to France and Russia. Prussia was eating an ice cream - England and America briefly argued over what flavour they thought it was. Denmark was wearing a 'Kiss Me Quick' hat on top of his usual Viking helmet. It was not a good look.

England took out his phone and pressed the appropriate number, "Francis, you useless tart, ring the emergency services!" He said down the phone when France finally answered.

"Que?"

"What?"

"What?" France replied. "I'm sorry I do not understand. You're breaking up!"

America snatched the phone from him, "Dude, I'll deal with this," he told England. "Dude Francy-pants, where did Gil-dude get the ice cream?"

England shook his head, "No, you idiot! That's not important…" he said desperately. "And hurry up. I'm sure I only have limited credit!"

"Oh sorry… yeah… " America shook his head and smacked his forehead, "Dude… I mean what flavour is that ice cream? Cos Artie thinks it's vanilla but I'm sure it's strawberry."

"No! Tell him to call 999." England yelled.

"Right… Oh yeah, Francy-pants get me a 99." America added, nodding at England who was in a paroxysm of rage.

"You're going into a tunnel!" France said down the phone. He could be clearly seen pointing and laughing at the phone with Denmark.

"He says we're going into a tunnel," America said to England as France hung up.

"No we're not. We're on a bloody ferris wheel!"

America shrugged. "Maybe he means _he's_ going into a tunnel?" he suggested.

England looked down at France who waved back at them.

"You're going a funny colour, dude," America told England.

England took several breaths and attempted to redial. "I'm out of bloody stupid credit! I'm going to kill…". He glared at his handset and considered embedding it in America's skull. "Ring someone on your mobile," England told America through gritted teeth.

"Can't. It's in the van with Sealand."

"Damn."

"I know I bet he's using all my data."

"Where are your CIA bodyguards when we need them?"

America shrugged. "I think they left to get coffee or ice cream or something."

"Surely someone will bloody call the emergency service?" England said.

England settled himself to wait it out and watch the morons below. One of them would have to rescue them at some stage, after all, he had the car keys.

England couldn't tell what was happening on the ground, but Russia was remonstrating with Prussia and Prussia was making some kind of gesture. It looked as if there was about to be hostilities over the said ice cream and then Russia ran after the Prussian.

A small bird, Gilbird, flew after them. England hadn't realised that Gilbird was actually staying with them but, as America pointed out, almost wisely, what with all the kittens around, it wasn't surprising as it could so easily turn into a Sylvester and Tweetie-pie episode.

Just as England was losing the will to live the ferris wheel started up again. Probably because Prussia and Russia ran through the small wooden hut (the latter chasing the former) containing the on/off switch and woke the 'controller' up.

* * *

England staggered off the contraption.

"That was fun," America announced.

"I bet that brought back memories of that time you and me were stuck on top of that rollercoaster at Blackpool for four hours," Denmark told England.

England shuddered. It had been nowhere near as bad.

It also began to rain.

"So much for blue sky…" someone said.

"Poo," France said.

Russia agreed with this sentiment and seemed to have forgotten his feud with Prussia, as someone had given him a bucket and spade.

Denmark was drunk.

It was then that they came across the crazy golf.

England knew, absolutely knew, he could beat all of them at crazy golf. He was the master at it. He'd won the Bangor Crazy Golf Over-50s Competition four years in a row, beaten only by a 75 year old called Marjorie. It still rankled. He would show them.

And everything would have been okay if America had not pleaded with him to go get an ice-cream, while the American paid the man for 'some balls and a stick'.

When England returned, it was carnage.

America had taken up Prussia's bet that he couldn't possibly get his head 'in there'. 'In there' being a miniature windmill on the crazy golf course.

Prussia was laughing.

Denmark was drinking beer and watching the whole thing with a look of drunk bewilderment.

Russia was attempting to free America by hacking his head off with his plastic spade.

Only France was doing anything of use. He was calling 999 and flirting with the caller, "Will you send some big men, mon cher?"

England looked at the situation and silently handed France a strawberry Cornetto in resignation.

* * *

An hour later on the way home…

England quietly seethed. The Bentley was covered in a mixture of cat hair and candy floss. And he would find out who had left four kittens in his prized Bentley with candy floss and why.

France sat in the footwell and ate his cornetto while looking at England with anxious eyes.

America sat in the back with Russia, his dignity severely wounded.

"You'd think my main men would have saved me," America said again. For the thirtieth time.

England assumed he was talking about the CIA.

England growled, "I expect they're fed up of your bloody stupid stunts." (In fact, the CIA had decided Wales was such a boring country nothing dangerous could possibly happen to America.)

"Da, it is good that you have me to look after you. I still think that if I was allowed to take off your head it would have been better," Russia said.

"He wouldn't have had a head!" England yelled. "How can that be better?"

"Oui," France said, licking his cornetto.

Russia didn't answer but looked at America.

"Anyway, we're home now," England said as the Bentley swept up the mud track leading to Primrose Cottage.

Which was no longer there.

"What in God's name?" England yelled, climbing out of the car.

Where once stood a 19th century stone-built cottage with thatched roof, was a pile of smoking embers.

The fire service, who had been too busy hacking America out of the miniature windmill to put the fire out, pulled up behind them.

Germany approached England, "It's not as bad as it looks," he told him, taking hold of the Englishman.

"There's nothing left!" England said, shaking off the German.

"It looks better," America remarked and then shrank back when he saw England's face.

"What's happened?" England asked one of the CIA men as they stepped out of the black van.

"He set me up with a pension plan," the man said, pointing at Sealand.

"No, I mean my cottage!"

"It has burned down, mon ami," France said sadly.

"I can see that!"

Italy burst into tears, "I'm so sorry!" He said. His chefs hat was askew and burnt and his eyebrows were singed.

Germany immediately placed himself between Italy and England, "Now before you go laying blame…"

"What did he do?" England snarled.

"Pizza, I think," Russia observed, poking around in the charred remains of the kitchen. He seemed wholly unbothered by the smoke and smouldering ruins. It probably reminded him of home.

"Is everyone accounted for, Sir?" A fireman asked England.

England looked round and did a quick head count. Sealand was sat in the black van selling his online wares. Italy had buried his face in Germany's coat and was crying. America was getting in the back of the black van and telling them to 'high-tail it back to London'. Russia was smiling and picking through the cottage. France was looking at England worriedly and crunching the wafer part of his ice-cream unnecessarily loudly. Denmark and Prussia were somewhere back in town harassing the locals.

He was glad, even though his Bentley was an unwarranted mess, that the cats had been in the car/Russia's coat pockets the whole time. But then realisation dawned on him that not everyone was accounted for.

"Oh no! Henry!" He cried and went into several spasms of grief. France slapped him.

"He's dead, mon cher. I doubt anyzing can hurt him."

 **Next Chapter...**

 **Arthur wants answers...**


	56. Bohemian Rhapsody

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17,** **ihateslash604, ,** **nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 56 - Bohemian Rhapsody**

England sat at the table and looked out of the window. At least it had stopped raining. That was the only optimistic thought in his head.

That, and someone had put the kettle on.

Nothing else was looking up at all.

"Do we actually have teabags?" England asked morosely, his head in his hands.

"Camomile…" America answered.

"That's not tea!"

"Well it says here, camomile tea, so…"

"Oh please, behave!" England retorted.

"Honestly, dude. You need to cheer up. It's not all that bad," America told him. The American was weirdly cheery.

"Not all that bad? Not all that bad? My bloody cottage burned down!"

"Yeah but I think…"

"I don't care!" England yelled at him.

America looked severely put out. He was still eating candy floss.

"And stop eating that muck. You'll have a sugar high."

Having rescued nothing but a few mugs, Russia's vodka and Germany's paperwork (which, amazingly, was unmarked) from the ashes of the cottage, England was feeling less than happy.

Above England's head was a pair of socks. This was because someone had strung a string from one wall to the other and hung their wet socks on it. Wall was actually a loose term, as they were sat in a 10 foot by 4 foot touring caravan. This was kindly lent to them by England's brother, Wales. Bryn Jones (or 'Uncle Bryn' as America kept calling him) had rolled up in his tractor (why he had a tractor, England didn't ask) and rescued them from all sleeping in a tent or risk bothering the local B&B owners.

England wasn't sure whether he should thank his brother though. There was barely room to swing a cat. When he'd said this at first, there'd been a stunned silence and everyone had stared at him. Then he'd realised that they did have cats with them. He was then accused of being cruel to all felines.

He'd denied this of course.

"I'll be going then now, Arthur. Have a good holiday," Bryn said as he headed out of the door, wiping his wellington boots on the mat as he left. Why he wiped his boots as he went outside, England had no idea.

"Yes… thanks…" England said, without enthusiasm.

"And try not to burn this down," Wales added as he slammed the door.

England didn't answer him.

"Wow Uncle Bryn is really bad-tempered. He doesn't look very fishy though does he?" America asked. His eyes were wide like dollar pieces (England didn't know how big dollar pieces were but probably pretty big) and he was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

"Fishy?" England wondered what weird and wonderful drugs America could be on.

"To say he's the personification of Whales. Does that include blue whales and humpbacks?"

"Wales. You fool, Wales!" England yelled. "And whales aren't fish. They're mammals," he told America.

Wales popped his head back round the door and said in his sing-song voice, "Do you know Russia is still on your roof?"

"Yes," England answered wearily. "He's watching for the enemy."

"Like Snoopy." America said incomprehensibly.

King Henry slept on, still snuggled incongruously in a 'Monsters Inc' sleeping bag. The medieval king had slept through the whole of the fire and had been shoved into an overhead cupboard. This would have upset the royal personage quite a lot if he'd been conscious. England thought he must have given the King rather too much cough medicine.

Wales looked around the caravan, "Well I hope you'll all be comfortable here," he said, looking at the king finally and left.

"Well he's funny," America said and switched the kettle on again.

"Stop messing with the kettle," England told him.

"There's nothing else to do!" America replied.

"I thought you were buggering off back to London anyway?"

"My CIA dudes say that I have to stay here because nothing ever happens in Wales and that means I'll be safe," America said, chewing on his candy floss.

"Safe from what?" England asked, astounded.

America didn't answer as the door was flung open and Italy came in. "I found my big pasta pot!" he said triumphantly. "Germany had it in his car! By the way, your brother is crazy, England!"

"I know that. And why is that uptight German sat in his car anyway?"

"Because this place is way too small for all of us!" America said and bounced around. "I feel like dancing! Dance with me, Feli!"

"Well…" Italy began to say but was soon bouncing up and down in the caravan with America while the latter Nation sang 'Born in the USA!'.

"Of course you were born in the USA. You're bloody America," England muttered and hurried out. It was always best to make oneself scarce when America was in 'Springsteen mode'. It was only a matter of time before Alfred got out his microphone aka hairbrush or used a frying pan as a makeshift guitar and began singing 'Born to Run' or some such foolery.

Outside, things were no better.

Germany was resolutely fuming in his brand new BMW - this car was a replacement for the Mercedes that England and France had accidentally wrecked with an antique bureau. England still felt some satisfaction at that.

The German wasn't actually fuming. To England's disgust, the German didn't smoke.

England approached him and was delighted to see that France was stood at the German's driver's window begging him if he would take him for a driving lesson.

Germany utterly refused to open the window but was pretending to read a road atlas instead.

"You can't fool us, Germany," England called, tapping on the glass, "Open the door! And besides you have the atlas upside down."

"Da, it is true," came a voice above and behind them.

The sight of Russia sat on top of the caravan was alarming enough. The fact that he also seemed to be holding a Kalishnikov was even more alarming.

"Where did you get that weapon from?" England asked nervously.

"This?" Russia asked, waving it around most carelessly England thought.

"Yes, that."

"Down at the seafront while you were stuck on that Ferris wheel," Russia answered.

"Really?" England had no idea there were arms dealers down at the seafront. He would have to re-evaluate his whole outlook on Welsh seaside villages.

"Da." Russia said and aimed the weapon at England and pressed the trigger.

England flung himself to the ground.

He was hit.

France peered around the car at him. "What is wrong, mon cher?" He asked.

England stood up, brushing mud off his knees and looked at the projectile that had hit him. A tennis ball. "It fires tennis balls?" he asked.

"You are very jumpy, mon cher."

"I hope that didn't hit my car!" Germany said, winding down his window.

"Of course it fires tennis balls!" Russia said. "Who would sell a real gun at a funfair? You English are crazy."

England growled to himself.

"Please Allemagne, please take me on a driving lesson! I promise, mon cher that if you do I will teach you all about l'amor," France begged Germany.

Germany quickly closed his window again.

England tapped on the glass, "Yes please take him, Germany. And he will teach you l'amor…" England shuddered.

Germany ignored them both and turned up the volume on the car radio.

"Eet eez terrible, how will I ever learn to drive, non?" France whined.

England shrugged and tapped on the glass rhythmically, "Germany, perhaps if you take him on a lesson, Russia will stop hitting your car?" England said.

"But he's not hitting my car!" Germany hissed at him, after winding down the window.

England waved at Russia, who 'reloaded' and fired at Germany's car.

"My new car! I just got this from the dealership this week!" Germany yelled as a ball hit the roof.

Russia's aim was rather good, England thought.

"I was aiming for England," Russia said, reloading. "But I don't like German cars either."

"Charming…" England muttered. He was caught between the insanity of being used for target practice by a mad Russian, or going back into the caravan from which an awful screeching could be heard. America's own version of 'Springsteen Live in Wales' in full flow.

England hurried to the black van parked a couple of hundred yards behind the caravan.

"Hello?" He asked, as he opened the door.

He found a large man in a smart suit, blocking his way. "What do you want, Kirkland?" The man asked.

"Bloody CIA…" England muttered. "Is my son, Peter, in there?"

"You can't come in without an appointment," the man said.

"I'm his bloody father!"

The man shut the door in England's face and England could hear talking within the vehicle.

Then the door opened and the man said, "You have two minutes. He's waiting for the markets to open in New York."

"Peter? Are you okay? I know this is a bit rubbish staying here in this hovel and I should have checked in with you earlier…" England began to say as he boarded the van. He then realised that within the van, Peter was living in hi-tech luxury.

There were at least six screens, one showing Bloomberg, another showing the markets in Hong Kong, China, Taiwan etc, another showing a shopping channel that seemed to marketing sailor suits and yet another with a cartoon channel on it.

"What in God's name?"

"Hurry up, Dad. I don't have all day. I'm waiting for a call back from the CEO of Samsung," Sealand told him.

"Eh?"

"Dad, I'm having a busy day. My stock has fallen 20 per cent. Do you understand what that means?"

"What?"

"Clive, get rid of him," Sealand waved at one of the CIA men.

"No! Wait! I was just checking on you. Has he been good?" England asked 'Clive' who England had thought of as 'Marcel'.

"He reinvested my pension portfolio. It's now worth five times as much," the man said.

This meant absolutely nothing to England. He might as well have been talking in German.

"Anything else, Dad? You should really get rid of that house of yours in London while the property market's up." Sealand said helpfully.

"That house has been in my possession for two hundred years. I'm quite attached to it!"

"Yeah well…"

"Are you running some kind of international company or something?" England said, looking round, finally catching on. Sealand was sat in an office chair, drinking from a Starbuck coffee mug, a percolator in the corner bubbled away and there was a fax machine throwing out paper.

"You always said I should do more!" Sealand protested.

"I said you should do more homework!" England said, exasperated. "I shall be telling Finland and Sweden about this," England said. He hoped they'd take the child off his hands.

Sealand shrugged and said, "This is homework! We were told in Maths to look at market forces."

"I doubt that very much. When I last looked at your maths homework book you were supposed to be doing ratios."

Sealand shifted uneasily in his seat and then his phone rang, the ringtone was the theme from the Godfather. He picked it up with some relief. "You have to leave, Dad," he told him, his hand over the mouthpiece.

England was about to protest but was propelled out by 'Clive'.

"But… but…" he said and then gave up as he was 'helped out' by Clive onto the muddy field.

"I say!" He said as he straightened his jacket and tie. An Englishman should never be thrown out of a black van in the middle of a grassy field. Particularly when there was a German around to judge.

Germany was shaking his head. England was unsure if it was because of his parenting skills or at France's pleas.

Suddenly, the German jumped out of his car, shoved France out of the way and stormed towards the caravan.

England called out, "I wouldn't if I were you, Germany. He doesn't like being interrupted in the middle of one of his Springsteen concerts." England had remembered when he'd walked in on Alfred singing 'Dancing in the Dark' or should that be 'Shouting in the dark'. England had walked in, switched the light on and told him to stop making a bloody row. The American had sulked for hours.

"Queen," Germany said over his shoulder to him, while opening the caravan door.

"I bet your pardon?" England said, utterly appalled.

"I zink he means zat you are a queen, mon cher," France said, diligently picking the lock on Germany's BMW.

What Germany meant was that the noise coming from the caravan was actually Queen the band. Or more precisely, America and Italy 'singing' a Queen song.

"I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me!" America sang at the top of his very loud voice.

"He's just a poor boy from a poor family!" Italy sang back.

"Spare me my life from this minestrone!" America sang incomprehensibly.

"Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?"

"Wish me luck, I will not let you go!" Italy mis-sang.

"Beezlebub had a devil for a sideboard for me! For me! For me!" America yelled.

Russia, stood outside, his eyes as wide as saucers and said to France, "I once met Beezlebub at a Demon Sub-Committee meeting and he stole all the biscuits." France was too busy picking the lock on Germany's car to listen.

Germany's agitation grew, and not noticing France's thievery, he entered the caravan which was now rocking from side to side. "Italy! Are you okay? What is happening? You sound as if you are in pain!" He called, panicking.

Inside the caravan, Italy and America were bouncing up and down - both high from copious amounts of candy floss - and yelling at the top of their voices.

"Psst, Angleterre," France hissed.

England turned to the BMW and stared in horror as France slithered onto the driver's seat which was still warm from Germany's indignant bottom.

"Want to go for a ride?" France said and winked.

England shuddered. Nothing, short of a disaster would impel him to get in that car.

"Germany Germany, will you do the fandango?" Italy and America 'sang'.

Clearly, Germany would not. Because England could hear him telling them he wouldn't.

Russia shook his head, "He really should," he said and followed the German into the caravan with his 'gun'.

It was probably the Russian's extra weight that made the caravan tip over. Or perhaps America's and Italy's attempts to get Germany to 'fandango'. Many theories were put forward afterwards.

England didn't wait to find out.

"We can go for fish and chips!" France said to England as Wales' caravan tipped on its side like a floundering cod.

England jumped in the car, saying a prayer as he did so, and the BMW sped off, the back wheels spinning in the mud.


	57. Fastlove

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17,** **ihateslash604, ,** **nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 57 - Fastlove**

"I zink zat ze world has gone mad, mon cher. Of course eet eez all part of ze plan…"

The speaker was France and he was driving. Badly. The car (stolen, BMW, black - although the colour is insignificant in this case) was on the wrong side of the road.

England yelled and grabbed the wheel, bringing the car back to the left. "What on earth are you twittering on about?" He asked. He was regretting this and they were only a few miles away from the caravan site. But if he went back he would have to face up to the carnage they'd left.

"Ze state of ze world, mon cher. One day ze great French Empire will rise again and we will rule all of Europe and l'amor will persist!"

"Great Empire?" England spluttered. "Jesus! Watch that cyclist! Oh my God!" His hands were gripping the dashboard so hard that his fingernails left indentations. "You were a rubbish Empire. You just played at it. Being an Empire is not a hobby," England told him. "Now bloody change gear, you loon. You've been in first gear for the last ten minutes."

Indeed, it had taken them ten minutes to drive one mile. Mainly because France was chugging the BMW along firstly on the wrong side of the road and then actually almost in the hedgerows.

"That man was very rude back there," France said.

"You nearly ran him over," England said with a sigh.

"When I am a great Empire again I will have a chauffeur," France told him.

"Yes, that's a good idea. Because I don't think you should be behind the wheel of a car. Will you keep your bloody eyes on the road! For God's sake!"

"Stress suits you, mon ami. You look handsome when you are angry." France purred.

England ignored him, but moved his knee away from the gearstick area.

They came to a roundabout, this was the moment England dreaded.

"You driven in bloody London, you goon. This should be a piece of cake!" England said, looking at the near empty road ahead of them. France still drove like a bloody idiot he thought.

"Ah cake. We should go and have afternoon tea, mon cher."

Much as England would have loved afternoon tea, complete with china cups, home-made scones, butter, jam and tinsy-winsy sandwiches with the crusts cut off, he knew that consuming such with a badly-attired Frenchman would put him off his cucumber sandwiches.

France was wearing very tight pink jeans, so tight they were indecent, a flowery blouse and a yellow fedora. Not particularly practical trousers for the inclement Welsh weather, England felt.

"France, where's your poncho? At least it covered you up. You should have bought a cagoule like mine." England held up his own bright orange cagoule, brighter than the sun.

"Poo, you have no sartorial sense at all, Angleterre."

"And why are you wearing sandals? Do you want to borrow a pair of my wellingtons? I think I might have left a pair in the Bentley."

"You may not care how you look but I do," France said as he edged the car out onto the roundabout.

"Just keep left," England instructed.

France drove right.

"No! We're not in bloody Paris, you idiot."

A tractor, predictably came the other way and the farmer therein shouted something rather obscene at them.

"I am not a wanker!" France shouted out of the window. He kept the window down and drove off the first exit he came to.

"For God's sake, you are a bloody…" England began to say. "Oh my God!" England then exclaimed as France drove the car up a mud track. "Where in God's name are you going?"

"Stop talking about God. I did not think you believed in God. You believe in cricket and football."

"We are going up someone's driveway!"

France stopped the car, which slid a little on the road.

"A farm. It says 'Jones Dairy Farm'. Is it your brother's?" France asked.

"He doesn't own everything."

"Apart from ze cottage zat burned down and ze caravan that you have now wrecked."

"That wasn't my fault! Now turn this bloody car round."

It was always painful to watch France attempting a three point turn and this was no exception.

After 20 minutes and forty-five turns. Fifteen minutes spent shouting at France to get in the 'right bloody gear'. They found themselves stuck. The back wheels spinning.

"Ah… German engineering," France said laconically and leaned back in his seat and began smoking.

England pointed to the 'No Smoking' sign on the dashboard, took the cigarette from France's hand and threw it out of the window. The window was wound up and it bounced off and landed behind them in the back of the car and smouldered unnoticed by them both.

"Bloody get us out of here, you French goon," England yelled at him.

England had had plenty of time to think as he'd alternatively shouted at France and watched him crunched through the German gearbox. He was thinking his life was in ruins and no doubt now Germany was reporting his car stolen. England was also wondering why the cottage had burned down. He had blamed Italy and his cooking but the Italian had denied this. More importantly, so had Germany who, despite being a pig-headed boring nobhead (in England's opinion), was actually usually right about these things. That could only mean one thing… that nefarious bear was still after him and would obviously stop at nothing to get his revenge.

"Right! For God's sake!" England finally gave up after his thinking and watching France trying to get them out of the mud. His patience had run out like a tin of tomato soup through a colander. "Get out! I'll drive. I'll show you how it's done."

France shrugged in his annoying Gallic way, got out of the car, stepped around the car, squelching through the mud and waited moronically until England had stepped out - straight into a puddle. At least England had his wellington boots on - which he pointed the fact out to France and that this was why he had won the War and France was such a 'loser'.

France shrugged again and got in the car, watching England trudge around to get in the driver's side.

There was a fumble around for the car keys, with France claiming he had 'lost' them, then admitting they were in his trouser pocket and then trying to con England into reaching into said pockets for them.

"Not bloody likely… I'd prefer to trap my own gonads in the car door than put my hand in your bloody trouser pockets!" England replied.

France looked upset and went into one of his mega-huffs. "I am not always after your body and ze sex, mon cher." He said finally.

England ignored him and was looking at his phone. Eight missed calls - all from Germany and no less than twelve text messages. His voicemail told him it was 'full'. He switched the phone off.

"Give me the keys, Francis or I'm telling Macron you've been a bad boy."

France shrugged but then handed him the keys with a sideways look.

England was amazed this had worked and vowed to use it again in the future.

"Now watch and learn from a driving master," England told him. "Of course when I was on Top Gear…"

"…You were thrown off for shouting at ze Stig because you came last on ze Star in a Reasonably Priced Car. Why did it take you 25 minutes, mon cher?"

"It wasn't my fault. They put me off!"

"And you are not a star! I zink zat pretending to be Daniel Craig did not go down so well, non?"

"I could pass for him." England growled, starting the engine.

"You are too weedy and a leetle short."

"In certain light I've been told I look like him."

"When it is very very dark, by someone with very bad eyesight…"

England ignored him and slammed the car into a gear and put his foot on the pedal. Nothing happened but the wheels spun.

"I zink zat you are sexier zan Daniel Craig. For someone who is so old."

"You're older than me!" England snarled. "We need to rock the car because it's stuck…"

"Ah oui. So zat means it is naked time!" France exclaimed and began to unbutton his shirt.

"No! Not rock it that way! Oh my God! Put your bloody clothes back on!" England almost screamed. But didn't. It was not becoming of a gentleman to scream. Particularly in a German car.

France pouted.

England got back out of the car and reviewed the situation. They were stuck. Well and truly. He considered ringing one of their fellow Nations but decided that this would make things far far worse. America seemed to view every operation as needing tanks and guns (despite the fact that there was no way he could procure either in the Welsh countryside). Russia would probably smash something. Germany would have a baby if he saw the state of his new car, England decided.

Thus, England stood at the bonnet, scratching his head and looking at the stuck front wheels. A thought occurred to him. If France could put the car in reverse and he pushed they might get it unstuck. "France, get back in the driving seat and put the car in reverse gear." England told him.

France slithered over to the driver's seat in delight and slammed the gear stick in something. It was not reverse gear. "Hey so why don't we make a little room, in my BMW, babe?" France sang along with the radio.

England shook his head, "Don't bloody call me 'Babe'," he shouted.

The car slid forward and England, stood at the bonnet, was knocked over. By a German car, no less and lay on his back in the mud. Thankfully, the idiot Frenchman stopped the car. Francis leaned out of the window, "Mon cher! Where are you?"

"You knocked me down, you bloody great garlic-eating dickhead!" England muffled from beneath the BMW. The car's bumper inches from his head. He saw his life flashed before his eyes. It was a thousand years long and France featured in it a lot.

"Oh non!" France climbed out of the car and squelched towards him. He peered down at the top of the Englishman's head - the only part visible.

"Bloody move the thing then!" England yelled.

"Ah oui!" France climbed back in the car, his bare sandalled-feet covered in good old Welsh mud and restarted the engine.

"Reverse!" England yelled.

France clanged up and down the gears and England prayed.

The car slid back and England got up. The back of his head splattered with mud. His orange cagoule no longer the colour of the sun (not that they'd seen the sun since they'd arrived in Wales).

He noted with satisfaction that the car was spattered front and back with mud. "You are in so much trouble, Francis," England said. "Germany can't blame all this on me."

"Little Allemagne has always wanted to get into my pants. Of course he will forgive me."

"How do you work that out?" England asked.

"It is why he is always invading my Loire valley."

England shuddered and not from the cold.

It was getting dark and by now the car was stuck. They had no choice. They had to do something which required them to do something most Nations avoided at all costs. Something that required great inner mental strength. Something that showed up most Nations to be the utter dicks that they usually were. They had to talk to humans.

"Right, I'm going to go up that driveway to that farmhouse and ask the farmer there to lend us his tractor." England told France.

"Talk to humans? In their own home?" France seemed amazed. "Are we allowed?"

"Well strictly no. But this is an emergency." England replied and strode off.

France jumped out of the car and followed him, squelching painfully through the mud in his sandals. He lost one, paused but then hurried off after the mud-covered Englishman. "Mon cher! Wait for me!" He called. "I want to see what happens."

England turned to look at him, "It might have been better if you'd waited in the car." He said, looking the bedraggled Frenchman up and down.

"You are a hero. Of course to save my poor feet and my gorgeous hair from ze rain."

"No, because you look like you've been in the Somme," England replied. England knocked on the door of the farmhouse. A large foreboding house with a picture of the Welsh dragon, Idris, on the pane of glass in the door. He frowned. Dragons seemed to be the bane of his life. He half expected his nemesis, Mr Panda, or Mr Kumajiro, to open the door. Instead a big stocky man answered. He had a beard, which immediately put England at a disadvantage (England had never been able to grow a beard, despite Henry VIII's insistence that he was less than a man if he didn't).

"Ah hello I was wondering if you could help me and my friend." England said and nudged France to keep quiet and not say anything of a sexual innuendo nature.

The man said something that sounded like he was singing or clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry we don't speak Welsh," England replied. "But my brother is Welsh," he added as if that made any difference to the man's propensity to help them.

The man stared at them, "What happened to you? Are you the pair who burned down my friend's cottage?"

France nodded and was nudged forcefully in the ribs by England and then shook his head quickly. France was staring at the man with a look of such intensity that the man stepped back. He obviously recognised a sexual harasser when he saw one.

"Of course not. My friend and I," England said the word 'friend' and coughed a little. "Are on a touring holiday in your delightful country and we got our car stuck on your driveway."

"Stuck in ze mud." France said helpfully. "We need a big strong man to help us move it."

England stamped on his foot.

The man looked England up and down. England's front was almost mud free, however, at the back he was covered in brown sludge. "And you tried to push it out yourselves, eh?" the man said.

England nodded. "I don't suppose we could just come in and…"

The man's wife appeared at the farmer's shoulder and stared at the two of them. "You aren't treading on my carpets," she told them most firmly.

England sighed. It wasn't the first time he and France had been told that.

France gawped at her, "Such loveliness as i have never seen before!" He said. "You are like a summer's day."

The woman, a big stout Welshwoman, in a pinny, her hair in curlers, on the wrong side of fifty years old, stared at him and then giggled. Her husband, England assumed, stared at her and then back at France as if he were some kind of sorcerer. England suspected that the woman had never giggled in their long decades of marriage.

"I apologise for my friend…" England began to say, but the woman nodded at France.

"You can come in and warm yourself by my fire whilst Ivor tugs your friend out."

France just about skipped into the house. England yelled after him, "Bloody behave yourself you…" he was about to say 'randy Frenchman' but the farmer was glaring at him and he thought better of it. Besides it wouldn't be the first time if a cuckolded husband chased the Frenchman down a driveway with a shotgun.

* * *

It was a long thirty minutes, England thought. 'Ivor' had indeed brought out his tractor and duly towed the BMW, its once shiny black was now unrecognisable under the layer of mud, a bumper had detached itself - which only proved how rubbish German engineering really was (England couldn't remember ever losing a bumper before even when he drove a Mini Metro) and a wiper blade was gone.

"Thank you very much, my good man," England said, holding out his hand to the farmer.

"Are you the nobhead who cut me up at the roundabout by going the wrong way round?" The farmer asked suspiciously, as he got out of the tractor, ignoring England's proffered hand.

"No, most definitely not," England said.

"Well, there you go. You're out of the mud," the farmer said, unhooking the towrope from the BMW. "Now yer can take your boyfriend and leave these parts," he added.

"He's not my boyfriend!"

"Right." The farmer said, looking unconvinced.

"We live together but we don't actually live together."

"Right."

"I mean he lives in my house but not with me."

"Right." The man was, however, already getting back in his tractor.

"I mean I've been trying to get rid of him for months now. I say!" England shouted after him, having suddenly got a rather good idea. "You wouldn't mind taking him off my hands would you? He's very good at cooking. If you like garlicky messy sauces. He's also rather handy at ironing trousers… Oh he's gone…" England said as he watched the tractor chug back up the driveway.

He sighed as he got back in the car, thought about taking it through a car wash before they returned it to Germany. But decided that going through a car wash with France would just entice the Frenchman into more perverted ideas. (France had once told England that he found carwashes 'erotic'.)

He also thought about driving off without the idiot but just as he was about to do just that, a barefoot Frenchman came steaming down the driveway, pulling up his pants breathlessly. "Wait for me mon cher! Oh mon dieu! He has a shotgun." It was all very predictable, England thought as Francis jumped into the car, smearing the front seat with even more mud.

England sighed, not even missing a beat and drove the car, juddering down the path. He was fairly confident they could outrun a tractor.

Meanwhile, his phone registered fourteen missed calls, twenty-two texts and unbeknownst to the Englishman and the Frenchman there was an all car alert out for them by Montgomeryshire County Police.

Small flames began to the lick at the carpet in the back, despite the 'Feuerresistent'* label on the car mats.

Above them, 24-foot long wings beat a steady rhythm keeping easy pace with the car…

 **Author's Notes:**

 *** German for fire resistant**


	58. Caravan of Love

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17,** **ihateslash604, ,** **nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons**

 **Chapter 58: Caravan of Love**

America is typing on his phone.

America:

 _I don't know how long I've been here. Time has no meaning for me. A bit like Arthur when he's waiting for his teabag to brew. This place is hell. No Nation has ever suffered as I am right now. There is no way out. Trapped forever, we are fast running out of air and food. Italy is already on the floor crying. I haven't eaten in hours or could it be days. It may even be years. (Author's note - it's actually two hours.)_

 _Germany was the calmest until he realised that Artie and Francy-pants stole his car. Then he went berserk. Then fat Russkie grabbed him and threatened him with his Nokia._

 _Man, that was just unbelievable, I was agod (Author's note - he probably means agog). I couldn't believe my eyes. I mean who has a Nokia?_

 _I think the end is coming. What will happen to my country when they have no nation? What will become of Cali, Tex and Maryland? They will all miss me. Probably not New Mex though, I'm sure he hates me._

 _And now I've no signal and my phone battery after sending all those text messages to Artie dude has meant tha…_

Here the missive ended - the last message from the great Nation of the United States of America. Or so he thought as his phone battery finally died.

He, Italy, Germany, Russia and Henry VI were indeed trapped. The caravan had fallen onto its side - the very side where the door was.

They had rung Hungary who, if the background noise was any indication, was in a disco or lunatic asylum or both. She sounded very drunk. She told them she would send her assistant 'Tinks' to aid them and then shouted 'Pol' and told Pol their predicament and then hung up whilst laughing uproariously.

"That sounds like a disreputable place," Germany said with a tut.

The others nodded but looked envious.

Italy rang his brother who hung up, after telling him that after Italy had bailed on him, he had been trying to make pizzas and deliver them and was now stuck on the Edgeware Road in a traffic jam for the last six hours. Italy sighed with the dramatic sadness known only to Italians.

Germany vowed never again to go into business with Italians.

Germany then rang his brother and found that Prussia and Denmark had returned to England's house and turned their entrepreneurial skills to turning the Englishman's lounge into a roller disco. Germany actually smiled, believing that this was divine retribution for wrecking his cars.

"They're charging ten pounds to get in," Germany told the others.

"Disgusting," Russia said.

America stared at him, "I didn't think you would stick up for England."

"That is far too much. I would not pay that." Russia said. "Perhaps five pounds." He added mysteriously giving everyone in the caravan the impression he would go rollerblading.

Germany raised an eyebrow.

Henry VI nodded as if he were going to join the big Russian.

Ringing the CIA outside had done precisely the square root of nothing. Apparently, they could not help as Sealand had ordered them not to. Why Sealand was now in charge of the CIA was not explained. Perhaps it was wholly to do with the stock markets or perhaps it was because the CIA were no longer outside but at the local bank with Peter Kirkland as he was withdrawing all his pocket money ready to make a run for it as he realised the money he had 'wisely' taken on behalf of the Nations and invested had been lost.

"We did say that banana cheese was a risky concept, Sir," one of the agents told Sealand.

"Shut up and hold out that briefcase. I need to book a flight out to Guatemala," Sealand said as he stuffed his pocket money into the briefcase. "They'll never find me there."

"I would just go to Slough," the other agent said.

"Nobody is going to rescue us," Italy wailed from the caravan floor.

"No, probably not. We will all die here and because we are Nations it will take thousands of years. Eventually someone, probably my sestra, will find our bones," Russia told them cheerily.

America stared at him in horror.

"This is your fault," Germany said to Russia.

Russia turned to him, "Wut?" He asked, a purple haze forming around him.

"I mean er… him!" Germany pointed at America.

"Me? What did I do? We were only doing that crazy Irish dancing."

"And now that has allowed England and France, those two reprobates to steal my car. Who knows what horrors they are subjecting it to?"

Russia turned to America, handed him two kittens from his huge coat pocket, "Here, hold my kittens," he said and then punched Germany. (The other kittens sat on the upside down table meowing with interest.)

* * *

"I have to say that little old lady was rather rude wasn't she?" England asked France.

France nodded.

"I mean, my money is just as good as hers!"

France nodded.

"Who cares about sodding afternoon tea anyway? They weren't very welcoming were they?"

France shook his head.

"I can get my own teabags and cucumber sandwiches. I bet their Victoria sponge isn't home-baked anyway!" England continued.

France shuddered, whether at the word 'home-baked' - which admittedly did often bring the Frenchman out in hives when spoken by England, or whether at the mention of afternoon tea.

"I do zinc, mon cher, zat ze mud on your back is so bad that they would not let us in. But we could have sat on newspaper as you suggested. That is what your Queen always makes us do."

England nodded. It was true. Whenever he and France had visited the Palace, they had been made to put newspaper on the chairs before sitting down.

They were currently sat in the BMW (a cigarette smouldering on the back seat un-noticed) looking out at the raging Irish Sea. It was raining, the sky a leaden grey. England was eating fish and chips. He regretted that they'd gone in that tea shop that advertised afternoon teas. The welcome could not have been more hostile if they'd been carrying the Black Death. In fact England and France had been in hostelries before carrying the Black Death and not been turned away. But the 1400s had been that type of Century. The women had taken one look at the mud and thrown them out.

He also regretted that he hadn't asked for salt and vinegar on his chips. He offered France a chip, partly in a flash of kindness and partly to annoy the Frenchman.

Francis shrunk back from him as if he'd offered him a gift-wrapped cow turd.

"Good chips these. The fish could have done with better batter," England said, munching happily. "It only needs a bit of ketchup…"

"Disgusting," France muttered, blowing smoke at England.

"I thought I could smell smoke," England replied, ignoring the wafts of smoke behind them. "Perhaps we should get back and see if the others are okay?"

France nodded and watched in muted admiration as England drove them down the road with his fish supper on his lap.

"Perhaps we'd better rescue those idiots. They sound very angry if my text messages are anything to go by," England said.

"Allemagne has threatened to throw me off a cross channel ferry with a brick tied to my feet," France replied, looking at his phone. He didn't sound at all bothered.

England nodded. "I think, my pervy friend, that Germany needs to calm down."

* * *

"Calm down, Germania. I mean I know you're upset and all that, but fighting Russkie dude isn't going to make things any better," America was saying.

Germany wasn't actually fighting as such. Germany was getting his arse kicked by Russia. After all, the Russian had to wile away the time somehow.

Italy was trying to pull Russia off him. "Don't hurt him, Mr Russia! I love him!"

"Did you know that there is now a knitting channel?" King Henry suddenly asked, sitting up in one of the overhead cupboards and promptly bumping his head.

"I am going to kill you!" Russia growled at Germany.

King Henry, thinking Russia was addressing him, hunkered back down.

"Please? Mr Russia! Luddy-kins is my bestest favouritest friend in all the world…" Italy pleaded.

"Who is Luddy-kins?" Russia asked, pausing suddenly.

"Me!" Germany gasped.

"Jeez.. Europeans…" America said.

Russia dropped Germany and wiped his hands. He seemed genuinely upset that he'd been hitting someone going by the name of 'Luddy-kins'.

Italy flung his arms around Germany and sobbed.

"Is there really a knitting channel?" Russia asked King Henry.

Germany closed his eyes and prayed for deliverance.

It came in the form of an unlikely source…

"Ah yer wee idiots, what do yer think yer doin'? My brother Bryn is going to kill yer for messing up his caravan!" Came a voice from outside.

Germany and Italy stared at each other.

Russia frowned, in the middle of trying to bully a ghost into telling him about the Knitting Channel, he looked up. "Is that my good friend, Hamish?"

"Uncle Hamish!" America yelled. "We're stuck in this caravan. Artie has left us here!"

They heard a scrabbling and then a white-face framed by shocking red hair appeared at the window - which was now the ceiling. "Yer a bunch of bawbags so yer are!" He yelled at them.

Italy stepped back, "Oh no, it's Scotland!"

"Uncle Hamish can you get us out?" America shouted.

There was actually no need to shout - the window was merely perspex and Scotland was merely four feet away from them.

"Is King Henry there with yer?"

"Which one?" America asked. "There's loads."

"There's only one," Germany told him.

"There isn't. There's at least twelve of them," America replied confidently.

"No, I mean there's only one here," Germany pointed at King Henry, who was cowering away from Russia as the big Russian interrogated him excitedly about where he'd heard the rumour about a 'BBC Knitting Channel'.

"If it's Henry 1, 2, 4, 7 or 8 then we're not rescuing you!" Scotland yelled.

They could all smell the whisky from where they stood.

"They should wear numbers," America muttered, looking at King Henry.

"There's been King Henrys of Germany," Germany said, straightening his jacket and brushing off Italy's attempts to check his bruises.

"Nobody cares," America told him. "Hey, Henry dude! Which one are you?" America yelled at King Henry.

"Wha…wha…what?"

America stood between Henry and Russia, who glared at him. "Are you number 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 or… how many are there? I know you're not number 8…"

Russia prodded America, "I was here first, America. You don't have experience of royalty like I do."

"I had a king once."

"No you didn't."

"I did! Tell him, someone! It was mad King George! Then I got my independence!"

"Because he was mad?" Italy looked genuinely confused.

"Because who would want to be one of Arthur Kirkland's colonies?" Germany said with a sigh. "The man's a lunatic. He wrecks cars."

"Aye, I agree. Although he's never wrecked one of my cars," Scotland told them.

"I'm Henry the Sixth, King of England!" Henry said and then added in a quieter voice, "…And France."

"Yeah yeah whatever," America attempted to pat him on shoulder and his hand passed through. "Oh I forgot you're dead, sorry," he said. He yelled up to Scotland, "He says he's number six!"

Scotland disappeared and they could hear some muttering above them as Scotland conversed with a person or persons unknown.

Scotland then suddenly reappeared and nodded, "Aye, King Malcolm here says that's alright."

"Right then, so let's do this!" America said and waited.

"I don't think Scotland is actually going to do anything," Germany said to America.

The younger Nation looked at him. "I thought he'd come to rescue us? Anyway, what's a bawbag?"

Scotland stared down at them, "I've texted my brother and I'm sure he'll be on his way!" He said.

"But we've done that!" Italy sobbed.

Germany nodded grimly.

"Aye well…" Scotland said. "I'll stay with ye til yer die and play a lasting lament on my wee pipes," he told them.

"Does this mean…?" Germany looked in horror as Scotland suddenly disappeared and re-appeared with a musical instrument.

"I'm afraid it does, Germania," America said and went and sat in a corner with his hands over his ears.

"I can't take this! Oh no…" Italy said and joined America. "I come from the land of Bellini, Puccini and Rossini and this makes me want to stick forks into my ears."

"I have no idea what you just said," America replied.

"Not the bagpipe. Not the Flowers of Scotland…" Germany said. "I appeal to you, Mr Scotland as a fellow Nation, in the name of the United Nations Security Council…"

But Scotland couldn't hear. The bagpipes had started up. Even Russia looked horrified and covered his ears.

"Can't we get out somehow?" Germany mouthed to Russia. "It's up to us now!" He added, looking at America who was rocking slowly backwards and forwards and Italy, never the bravest Nation anyway, who was clinging to the superpower.

Russia nodded grimly, "But even I cannot quite reach the window. Even I, the tallest of the Nations…" he looked at Germany then with interest. "However…"

"Ja! I know what you're thinking!" Germany said, but what happened next was not quite what he was thinking.

* * *

"Well here we are, Francis," England said as they pulled up to the caravan site.

The sign said 'Sunny Valley Caravan Site'. England decided that his brother, Wales, must have been having a laugh to call it that. It was neither sunny, nor in a valley.

"I think it's going to rain again, don't you?" England asked France. "It's gone very dark."

"Oui, I wonder if it is because there is a large dragon above us?" France asked.

But England wasn't listening, he was looking in horror at the sight of his brother, Scotland, playing the bagpipes whilst King Malcolm danced alongside him.

Emerging from the upturned caravan was his fellow Nations climbing through a window.

Germany jumped down from the caravan roof. He was holding his head and wincing. This gave England quite a lot of satisfaction.

"What's wrong, Germany?" England asked, hoping that the German would be too concussed to realise that the car was covered in mud.

The reason Germany had a huge lump emerging from the top of his head (like a cartoon) was because Russia, finding he couldn't quite reach the window above them to get out, had grabbed hold of Germany and used the German's head to break the window.

"This is not what I had in mind!" Germany protested as the Russian had picked him up and aimed him at the window above. "I could have given you a leg up or we could have used…" here he broke off as his head broke the window. "…A ladder…"

"Well that was stupid," America said, stepping away from the caravan. "… I mean I couldn't see a ladder in there." He was slightly miffed that he hadn't been the one to get them out.

Just as Scotland was about to launch into the third rendition of 'Flowers of Scotland', Russia tore the bagpipes from him and flung them into the stratosphere.

"Oh grazie, Signore Russia!" Italy said and hugged the big Arctic Nation.

"Oh Francis! You were right we do have a dragon following us!" England said as a large green dragon landed on the caravan and puffed out a stream of smoke.

"He has been following us for a while, mon cher," France said.

"What in God's name have you done to my car?" Germany said, coming round from near unconsciousness. His face was now very red - it had been white before. Having a Russian using your head to break a window kind of took all the colour out of your cheeks.

"Well, it's funny you should say that…" England began.

"We were going to take it to the car wash, but Angleterre gets nervous in car washes," France butted in.

"I thought you were afraid of dragons?" America asked, eyeing the dragon. "And you can't take a dragon into a car wash!"

"That's Idris," England said dismissively. "And we weren't going to take him into a car wash."

"That's bloody big, that's what that is," America said.

"He's a Welsh blue," England replied.

"But he's green," American argued.

"It's just a breed," England explained patiently.

"Hello Idris, do you know Mr Ping?" Russia asked, approaching the dragon.

"You've ruined yet another of my cars!" Germany yelled at England.

"Do you want a chip?" England asked him.

"No I do not!"

"I said we should have gone to the car wash!" France muttered to England.

"Ping, formerly known as Ssss…" here Idris stopped and shook his huge body. "Sorry, I'm not allowed to say his former name… Ping the Magnificent is looking for you, Kirkland," the dragon said. He ignored Russia, as only a 20 foot fire-breathing winged lizard could.

"Did he say anything about Mr China?" Russia asked.

"Oh bugger…" England said. Suddenly, the idea of going in a car wash with France seemed appealing. No-one would look for him there.

"He's still green," America said to England and stole a chip.

"I want to know why the bumper has come off my car and why it's covered in mud?" Germany persisted.

"Calm down," England told him. "France and I will take it to a local mechanic and clean it up…"

"Why're you covered in mud, dude?" America asked. "You look like you've been in the Somme."

Germany's left eye twitched uncontrollably.

Meanwhile Russia, the only person who could argue with a dragon, was arguing with a dragon. "But you must know where he is!" He shouted, waving his faucet pipe around. He was not averse to threatening a fire-breathing dragon.

England handed Germany the car key, "Here, I'm very sorry but France made me do it. He was about to drive off anyway and I thought I should go with him to make sure he didn't do anything stupid…" England explained. "He's still stupid of course," he added lamely. "But all's well that ends well," he said brightly.

That's when the car burst into flames.

 **Author's notes:**

 **A bawbag is a Scottish insult - it basically means scrotum**


	59. Car Wash

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: RebelKinslayer, gingakita, luzhu, Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17,** **ihateslash604, ,** **nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 59 - Car Wash**

"Is the dragon still out there?" England asked.

France shrugged in his annoying Gallic way. "I cannot see from here, mon cher," he replied.

Of course he couldn't. He was sat on the floor of the passenger side of the Bentley (still not being allowed on the seats). He also could not see outside because they were sat in a car wash. They had been in the said car wash for at least two hours.

It had been a good idea at the time. But England had regretted it within about five minutes. But at least no-one would think of looking for him there. And when the trail had gone cold, they could leave and head home. In fact, England seriously thought about following Sealand into exile in Slough. Nobody would look for him there. Germany had pretty much declared war on him. Or at least had told him that he was a 'poor excuse for a Nation' while looking at him as if he resembled a particularly nasty carpet stain.

"You know, mon cher. I zink it would be very kind of you if you let me sit on ze seat," France said, blowing smoke in England's face.

England shuffled in his seat, "Be grateful I let you smoke!" He said. "Especially after what you did to Germany's car. Besides you're still covered in mud."

"So are you."

"Yes, but this is my car and this is my mud," England said.

"I could go and get you a cup of tea from ze service station," France said in a wheedling tone.

England twiddled with the radio - the bloody foam rollers of the car wash were playing havoc with the cricket coverage. "Tea?" He brightened instantly.

"Oui," France said. Despite knowing England for centuries he was still amazed at how excitable the Englishman could get at the idea of a hot beverage.

"Well be quick about it and make sure that bloody dragon doesn't see you," England said and switched off his phone before it could ping him any more obscene and quite frankly threatening text messages from the likes of Germany, Italy et al.

France shuffled out of the car and scuttled out of the car wash - the rollers had stopped moving now - in an odd crab-like like movement and was lost to view.

England sat back and thought about his life choices. All in all, things really were looking quite shit.

After Germany's car had burst into flames (I mean who could possibly have foreseen that?) - England had said, "Of course we will take full responsibility," and then jumped into his Bentley and sped off down the road.

France had run after him, his flip-flops flapping comically, shouting "Wait for me, mon cher!"

Unfortunately, he had. He'd stopped at the end of the dirt track, opened the passenger door and France had jumped in.

"This doesn't mean I like you," England had said. "And get off the seat."

He had then had to put his foot down as German ran after them, shaking his fist. He'd almost caught up too, in fact the German's hand had caught hold of the rear passenger door handle but France had opened his window and blown a kiss at him which had made the German fall over in disgust/surprise.

Thinking about it now, England had thought hiding in a car wash had seemed like a good idea. A dragon would never look for them there. Why was Mr Ping looking for him? Why was Mr Ping instructing Idris the Welsh dragon to pass on messages? England suspected it was something to do with Mr Panda who was surely behind the whole destroy the world thing despite what everybody said and that Mr Kumajiro (now on a 'most wanted list') and Mr Panda were out to kill him. The 'cute' bear act had never fooled England.

While he was ruminating and despairing over the England Cricket Team's performance and tutting along with the commentator (tutting was one of England's most common indicators of displeasure), France was having a 'to-do', as England would call it, in the service station.

"A cup of tea, sil vous plait," France said politely. Politeness he knew was highly prized here in Britain, more so than wealth (which was looked down upon), good looks (ditto) and good teeth.

"We don't do cups," the Welsh person behind the counter told him in a bored manner.

France was used to the bad service in Britain's establishments. It was barely any better in France. What usually appalled him was the fact that they never showed much interest in France's attire, and were often laissaiz-faire about his Frenchness - usually the opposite. France found that Brits were appallingly ignorant of other countries' accents and frequently mixed French up with Spanish, Italian or, horror of horrors - German. They never realised that he was from the great 'Le France'.

He often told them this and found that they were either completely uninterested or, worse proceeded to tell him that they'd been to Boulogne on a 'booze trip'. France could never understand the Brits' enthusiasm for travelling to his gorgeous country for the sole purpose of going to a hypermarket to buy cheap alcohol and then going home.

"No cups? My friend has to have a cup. How will he drink it?" France asked, horrified. He could only guess at England's displeasure if he brought back a beverage not in a china cup.

"We use those over there," the bored attendant pointed at a stack of polystyrene cups.

"He doesn't like them. Don't you have a mug at least? A proper receptacle for your wonderful national drink?" France asked.

"Are you being funny?" The man finally looked at France and saw a seedy-looking middle-aged man in too-tight mud-encrusted jeans, an equally mud-splattered poncho and flip-flops. In fact he'd never seen anyone so covered in mud who wasn't in a mud bath.

"I think I am actually," France replied, leaning on the counter.

"Is this for that weirdo sat in the car wash?" The man said.

"Actually it is and yes he is," France replied. "Are you free later for a candlelight dinner?" France asked the man. He found usually this question directed the mind more.

The man hurriedly began filling a mug emblazoned with 'Swansea Rovers' with tea. No doubt to get rid of the weird Frenchman.

"Ah zis country is so very very odd," France drawled. "Do you sell Gauloises?"

"Galoshes?" The man asked, misunderstanding.

"I suppose, if zat is what you call zem here," France said, thinking of his beautiful French cigarettes being called something akin to waterproof outerwear.

The man shook his head and dumped the mug of tea in front of France.

"Ah never mind," France said and sighed as if it were the most terrible thing in the entire world.

"That's two pounds eighty pence."

"Your conversation has been worth more zan zat," France said, as he gave him a 5 euro note.

"Can you remove your hand, please?" The man asked as France's hand lingered on his. "And we don't take euros."

"But you could exchange it, non?"

"For what?"

"Ze English money non?" France said.

"No we don't do exchanges."

France thought they didn't do much at all in his view, "I can persuade you I am sure…." France said in a faintly sinister manner put his hand down his pants. (Usually when he did this he found England would immediately back down on his demands and assumed that all Englishmen would do the same.)

The man misconstrued this immediately, "Are you threatening me with a weapon?" He asked shakily.

France giggled, "You could say I have a weapon, oui," he said.

And that was how France found himself unwittingly the perpetrator of an 'armed' robbery.

* * *

"I wonder if my hair would look better if I parted it to the left?" England mused to himself, looking in the rear view mirror at himself. He hadn't changed his hairstyle since around 1515. It might be time he actually tried to grow it long again. Although he did disapprove of such untidy looks (his own hair was not in any way shape or form in a 'style'), he thought he needed a change.

He wondered vaguely where France had got to. The idiot Frenchman had left to get a drink over twenty minutes ago. Surely it shouldn't take this long to get a cup of tea? Unless of course the moron had been distracted by the sight of the pure plethora of biscuits and other snacks for sale. (England was often appalled when he'd visited France due to the lack of appropriate biscuit foodstuffs. To be clear he visited the country, not the Nation - he rarely visited France's home - it was den of iniquity.)

"Bloody hell, I hope he's not browsing the biscuit aisle and talking guff about bloody French Lu biscuits being better than good old custard creams again," England muttered to himself. He opened the door in-between the car wash rollers going over his car (he'd shoved over forty tokens into the machine to ensure that he could stay in the car wash all afternoon).

When he dodged the car shampoo and stepped out into the daylight, blinking as if he had just emerged from a bunker, he was greeted with a sight that made him almost dodge back. And he would have as well if a policeman hadn't collared him and said, "Did you see the robber entering the service station, sir?"

"Oh bugger," England muttered as he surveyed the throng of South Wales police force encircling the service station, the helicopters overhead and now, even worse, the TV cameras.

* * *

Back at 'Happy Valley' Caravan Site...

"He's not going to get away with this!" Germany was saying again. For the hundredth time as he looked at the burnt-out remains of his BMW. The South Wales Fire and Rescue Service had arrived promptly and extinguished the fire, leaving a burnt-out skeleton of what was once a fine example of Germany engineering. Just two hours in England's possession had reduced it to a tangled wreck of jagged burnt metal.

"Germany I think that England and France should be told off!" Italy told him, nodding. "Now I'm going to make some pasta for all of us…"

"I'm making haggis!" Came a Scottish accent inside the caravan. For some reason, the drunk Scottish Nation, having seen his brother drive off in Germany's car, had shrugged and proceeded to clamber into the caravan and begin cooking. He was so drunk he thought he was in his own Highlands castle. King Malcolm had passed out on top of a protesting King Henry.

America was chasing down the lane after the fire engine, "Take me with you! I can be a firepersonman!" He yelled after them and then gave up as they turned the corner disappearing from sight. He jogged back to his fellow Nations looking forlorn.

"That is very sad," Russia said, shaking his head.

"I have my own axe and everything," America said sadly.

"I'm going to make bolognese!" Italy announced and disappeared back into the upturned caravan and began arguing with Scotland. "Bolognese and haggis don't go together!" Italy could be heard sobbing at Scotland, who belched in his face.

"I'm going to hunt down England and tear his head off," Germany said resolutely.

Russia took hold of Germany by the lapels of his nice shiny German-made suit. "Don't do that, it would not be a good idea to do that. My day would not be improved if you did that," Russia growled.

"Erm…" Germany suddenly found himself in a cold sweat. "Why?" He asked in a squeak. "I didn't know that you and England were friends."

Russia dropped him as if he were hot, "Nyet, we are not!" Russia looked appalled at the idea. "I think he a traitorous potato," he said incomprehensibly.

Germany frowned. He'd never heard of anyone being called a 'potato' before but perhaps it was a particular Russian insult.

"But he is still married to my sister, Bela." Russia explained. "So that makes him family…"

"Hell yeah!" America said, "That's punishment enough!"

Russia looked at him balefully but did not disagree. He turned back to Germany, "Plus he has the rest of the Coronation Street DVDs I need to borrow."

"You don't need them now you have the Knitting Channel!" King Henry called from within the caravan, still stuck underneath his fellow ghostly king (he was stuck underneath King Malcolm, not the caravan).

Russia's violet eyes seemed to light up, "But does the television in there have freesatview?"

"It's actually called freesat," America corrected him.

Russia ignored him. What could the American possibly know? He was just a child.

There was a pause, then a tentative, "Yes. I'm watching repeats of something called Downton Abbey," King Henry replied. "King Malcolm could you get off me now, please?" There was a snore in answer.

Russia shoved America and Germany out of the way to get to the caravan. "It's my favourite!" He shouted. "I just need my vodka and some beetroot soup and I will be set for the evening."

"Wild," America said. "Is that the loserville series Prussia got obsessed about that time he spent that summer working in a Tea Shop in Huddersfield?" America asked Germany.

"I never believed any of that," Germany said, straightening his tie and punching some numbers into his phone.

America nodded. "Nah you're probably right. I never believed there was ever a place called Huddersfield. Totally made up."

"Taxi please to a place called…" here Germany looked at America, decided such a cretin could not know where they were so strode up to the caravan and asked Russia, who he deemed slightly more competent (by not much). "Where are we, Ivan?"

"I am in a caravan trying to find out whether Lady Mary really did steal those silver teaspoons and somebody keeps interrupting me…" came a threatening voice from inside.

"Quite right…" came King Henry's voice.

"We're in Lochmahaggis!" Scotland yelled back. Surely a made-up name, Germany thought. But who knew? Scotland sounded drunker than that time he'd gone on a six-week drunken bender with Prussia and the pair had woken up naked in the middle of a dog show in Milwaukee. Thus, Germany decided to ignore his advice.

"We're in Silly Valley or something like that. Silly Valley Caravan Park Site," America told him confidently. America was of the opinion that if you said something with enough conviction it eventually became true.

Germany looked at him skeptically. "Happy something Caravan Site," he said to the voice in the telephone. "Please don't send anyone on your books named Gilbert or Matthias who may also go by the names Pru and Den. Please." He did not want wake up in Milwaukee, Peru or worse, Huddersfield.

"Where are you going anyway?" America asked.

"I'm going to kill…" Germany began to say and there was a warning cough from inside the caravan. "…I'm going to give England a good telling off and present him with a bill or at least have him committed to a psychiatric ward."

America stared at him and then said finally, "Cool, bro. I think he should go in a cycle war. Although he's not very good on a bicycle. He might need stabilisers."

"He definitely needs stabilisers," Germany muttered to himself as a taxi made its way up the track.

"Luddy! Be back by six o' clock and pasta time!" Italy called out.

"Shut up, little Italy," Russia could be heard saying. "I can't hear what Lord Grantham said about the spoons… I missed it now! Did they find them? Did they? I think they should be shot. I would take an axe to their heads…"

Italy jumped out of the caravan and caught hold of Germany, "Take me with you to tell off Mr England! Mr Russia scares me and Mr Scotland keeps threatening me with his sporran."

"He scares us all, Italy…" Germany said with a sigh as the three Nations got in the taxi.

"How do you know where to find Artie dude, dude?" America asked as the taxi pulled away. Behind them, a small fire had started in the caravan as Italy's bolognese sauce caught fire. Scotland could be heard trying to extinguish it with Russia's vodka. This seemed not to go down too well as Scotland was suddenly ejected bodily from the caravan.

Germany turned his attention to the taxi driver and away from the chaos behind him. That wasn't his affair. He really hoped Wales, England's brother, and the owner of this abysmal caravan site, was a hard-nut and would kick Russia's butt. He doubted it though.

"I think we should head towards the wailing sirens, helicopters and evidence of military vehicular activity," Germany said, answering America's question.

America nodded, his eyes bright. "Coolio."

"You mean like that there?" Italy said, pointing upwards as a police helicopter sped overhead.

"Follow that helicopter," Germany said to the taxi driver.

* * *

Author's Note:

Sorry for the delay in updating this story - been a bit busy. Had the song 'Car Wash' playing while I typed this...


	60. Dog Day Afternoon

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: RebelKinslayer, gingakita, luzhu, Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17,** **ihateslash604, ,** **nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 60 - Dog Day Afternoon**

"What in the name of Queen Victoria, is going on here?" England asked. It was a question he asked a lot of since France had moved in with him.

"Do you know that individual, Sir?" The policeman asked him.

The fact that there were policemen (and helicopters and now a TV news crew) was enough to make England's heart sink. He was about to deny it but someone stuck a microphone in his face.

"Are you the boyfriend of the robber? What's your name? Would you do an exclusive interview with us?" a journalist asked him.

"No I'm not. None of your business and no I wouldn't." England retorted, utterly disgusted. "What robber?" But he really already knew the answer to this.

"A Frenchman calling himself Napoleon or something has taken possession of the fuel station premises," the policeman told him.

England sighed heavily. "You mean Francis Bonaparte De Chevalier Bonnefoy and all that nonsense?" He asked.

"So you do know him?"

"Well…"

"He claims he is only doing it to get money for a sex change operation," the news man said excitedly and then turned to the cameras. "This could go out on the ten o' clock news!" He added as an aside to England. "He says he's doing it all for you!"

(The Police all looked at England when he said this and some wrote in their notebooks which was never a good sign in England's view.)

"For me?" England asked, his voice going several octaves higher as if Germany had already got hold of his testicles.

"Slough Evening News", the newsman said, giving England his card. "We've just been touch with someone who claims to be your son, Peter."

But they were disturbed by a huge 'flump' and England and the newsman jumped.

It was Idris, although the newsman clearly thought it was just some strange anomaly.

"I'm required to tell Mr Ping where you are," the old dragon said ominously, breathing heavy sulphurous-smelling breath in England's ear.

The humans of course could not see him and were doubtless incredulous when England began yelling loudly. "Tell your bloody master I'm not scared of him. Tell him to come and get me himself! Him and his master that Mr Panda. Bloody psychopathic bear!"

"Who are you talking to?" The newsman asked. "Can you comment on what the robber has said that if he could be a woman, he'd be everything you wanted him to be?"

"No I bloody well won't! Now bugger off while I talk to this dragon!" England yelled.

The journalist hoped to God that his microphone had got all that. Obviously this story was getting better and better. A transvestite Frenchman, holding up a fuel station with an unidentifiable weapon telling the police that he only did it so he could be a woman (he had actually said that if he was a woman, England wouldn't pick on him, but they had misinterpreted this) and now the robber's boyfriend was also a demented loony.

Before England had a chance to reason any more with Idris, the dragon had unfurled his huge wings and took off, causing an unexplained (to the humans) blast of air.

"I bet he was hiding the whole time on the top of the bloody car wash," England said.

"Yes I was!" Idris called as he flew away.

"Bugger."

"Can you talk to him, Mr er…?" a Policeman approached England.

"Who? The dragon?"

"What?"

"Oh, you mean Francis? Oh do I have to? Can't you just arrest him and send him back to France?"

"Is that where he's from?" the journalist asked, writing in his notebook.

"Isn't it bloody obvious? He speaks French. He has sexual perversions. He thinks garlic is a vital food group. He has problems with personal space. Of course he's bloody French! He's not exactly Welsh is he?" England said with mounting impatience.

"He's holding several people hostage in the service station and he asked to speak to you," the Policeman explained.

"Oh sod it." England said. He wondered if that evening could get worse.

It could and it was about to.

* * *

"Can you tell your weird little friend to stop screaming?" The Welsh taxi driver asked Germany.

"Italy, listen to the man!" Germany said.

"But… but… I really can see a dragon!"

"Ja," Germany hissed, "But the human can't. So stop it!"

"It still doesn't look blue," America mused. Sticking his head out of the window and looking up.

Flying directly above them was Idris.

The taxi driver who had picked them up at the caravan park, watched them in the rear-view mirror. Three more incongruous customers the man had never seen. An uptight German who kept muttering about somebody who ruins cars, an excitable Italian who kept chattering about pizzas, scary Russians and somebody called 'Fratello' and an American who was on the 157th level of Candy Crush and told the others to send him 'lives' whatever that meant. When the Italian screamed about a dragon, that was what made the taxi driver slam on the brakes.

"Idris! My main dude!" America yelled out of the window.

"Aaargh!" Italy screamed and almost jumped into Germany's arms. As Germany was sat in the front passenger seat, this was very troublesome.

"Just drive on," Germany told the taxi driver.

But America was already clambering out of the taxi. "Yo! Idris! Do you know where Arthur is?" He yelled up at the dragon who was circling above them.

The taxi driver, being a human, could not see the dragon. "Is this some kind of joke?" He asked. He began talking into his two-way radio to his radio operator. "Margaret," he said (obviously Margaret being the lady back in the taxi operator's office). "I've got some weirdos here. Probably the same weirdos Daffyd was talking about who caused all that trouble down on the seafront. They're saying they've seen a dragon and one of them, an American has jumped out and is talking to it… I mean er… thin air."

"Oh this is intolerable!" Germany said, summing up what the poor taxi driver felt. He got out with the air of a man who is done with the world. "Alfred," he hissed. "Get back in the car. We know where that car-wrecker and Francis is." (He said the name 'Francis' with particular loathing and disgust.). "We only have to follow the helicopters and police cars." He pointed out.

"I know but I want to ask Idris why he's green," America said.

But Idris was already flying away, having dipped his wings in salute at the American (who saluted back). (He had a message to deliver to Mr Ping.)

"Aw dammit," America said, in awe. "He could have given us a lift." (Germany shuddered.)

"Mr England thinks it was that other dragon, Mr Ping, and Mr Panda who try to cause Word War Three and they were behind the whole cake disaster," Italy told them, standing beside Germany and trying to hold his hand.

"Never mention that cake again," Germany warned him. He then looked around. "Where's the taxi gone?"

"He said he thought we were all a bit mad and then he told me to get out and then he drove off. I waved but he didn't wave back," the Italian replied sadly.

Germany just glared at him and then glared at America, who was obliviously waving at the dragon's diminishing form.

"I'm surrounded by morons," Germany said and began trudging off in the direction of the sirens.

* * *

"I'm surrounded by morons," England said to himself, weirdly echoing his German counterpart and arch-enemy. (England had a top ten list of enemies that he updated every so often, but Germany had occupied one of the top spots for a long time, as had France - the latter for around 956 years.)

"Could you talk to your boyfriend, please?" The policeman asked him again and handed him a megaphone.

"He's not my sodding…oh for God's sake… Francis!" He yelled.

"You don't have to yell, Sir. It's a megaphone."

England almost clouted the young policeman over the head. Why were they all so young these days? It was getting dark now and almost time for Coronation Street. "Francis! Come out now with your hands out of your trousers and nothing will happen."

"Well actually, we're going to arrest him and send him back to France," the policeman said.

England almost hugged him. "Really? Promise?"

There was no response from inside the filling station. England noted with some alarm (and a little satisfaction) that there were armed police surrounding the place.

"Do you have a shoot to kill policy?" He asked hopefully.

"No, definitely not," the policeman said with some suspicion.

"Francis! Get your fat arse out here now before I miss Coronation Street!" England shouted into the megaphone.

"Erm, we don't advise threatening armed robbers, Sir," the policeman said.

"He doesn't have a bloody weapon," England said.

"Phone call for you," another policeman said, approaching and holding out a mobile phone.

"I hope that's not bloody Germany. You can tell him from me that I didn't mean to set fire to his car." England replied.

"The robber…"

"Ah right… Yes…"

France's dulcet tones assailed England's ears. "Ah mon cher. I only came here for a cup of tea pour tu" (England winced at this) "And zis young man says zat I am trying to take over ze place. It has no sartorial elegance. Why would I want zis place? Ze terrible vinyl flooring, ze decor, ze total lack of pornography. And ze only coffee is zat terrible English crap."

"Francis. Nobody cares. Get yourself out here now." England replied.

"But zere are guns!"

"That's because they think _you_ have a gun, you bloody oaf."

"Pourquoi? I told ze man here zat I have a great weapon, ah oui and zen he pressed an alarm and zen he ran out next to ze cheese and onion pasties and he is sat zere crying. You English are very weird, mon cher. By ze way, do you still want your tea?"

England would have slammed the telephone device down but it was a mobile and instead he handed it roughly back to the policeman, whom he called an 'utter moron'. He then marched towards the petrol station, with the policemen watching in amazement and tried to shove open the doors. They were locked - it was the standard 'emergency locking code' in case of robberies. And obviously to stop any perverted and moronic Frenchmen from escaping in their underwear.

England peered through the glass door, pressing his nose against it. Inside the shop was a startled looking service station attendant where France had described him - sat in a corner of the shop next to a display of 'Pukka Pies'. France was stood at the counter idly smoking a cheap cigarette and flicking through a 'Mens Health' magazine. It was probably the closest France could come to finding any pornography.

England tapped on the glass and mouthed 'I AM GOING TO KILL YOU'.

* * *

Germany, Italy and America were just two miles away and trudging fruitlessly along a wet muddy Welsh road. They were following the sounds of sirens and helicopters and America's satnav which seemed to hate them.

"Can you shut that off?" Germany told America.

"She doesn't like us," Italy said sadly. He looked depressed. He was still worried about what state his pasta would be in when he returned to the caravan. He doubted a mad Scotsman, two dead kings and a rampaging Russian would ensure that it was okay.

"She told us to turn right back there," America said.

"That was a sheep farm. I doubt England and France are anywhere down there. We follow the helicopters." Germany said decisively. He wasn't going to be led astray by this undisciplined American.

America wasn't listening. "I wanted Darth Vader as my satnav voice but…oh wait a minute…" he stopped as the satnav on his phone chimed in again and told them, in an imperious English accent to turn around at the earliest opportunity. It also called him a 'dumbass'.

Germany never trusted an English accent, not since the British propagandists in the War had spread rumours about his underwear. "We're going this way," he said through gritted teeth.

"I don't think that lady likes us. She just called you a dumbass," Italy said.

Germany looked at the Italian. "Don't be stupid, Italy."

"Yeah, she's done that before," America said. "She often calls me stupid."

"It's not a 'she', it's a computer-generated voice. It's not a specific gender." Germany told him.

He snatched the phone from America, switched it on mute and handed it back. "You're a fool. Besides how did you put directions in it if you don't know where England is?" he pointed out like most reasonable, sensible people.

America shrugged, sulking. "I told her to find Artie dude."

"I'm going to text my brother," Germany said.

"No, not Prussia… he calls me spineless and useless and eats all my pasta," Italy whined.

"Shut up, Italy. Besides you don't have any pasta," Germany said and pressed some buttons.

'Dear Gilbert…' (Germany always always used proper grammar and punctuation in texts, he could not abide text speak) 'Can you give us a lift please so I can beat up England? We are…' (here he consulted America, who shrugged and tried to consult Siri, who apparently told him he was an 'idiot') '… just a few miles from that caravan park where England's brother Wales has a caravan which is now on its side…' Germany sighed as he texted and wondered why he was putting all this in a text to his brother, who probably didn't care '…it's not far from that dreadful cottage we all stayed in that burned down… just text me and I'll try to send you co-ordinates. Best wishes Ludwig.'

"German nobhead," America muttered.

"What?"

"That wasn't me. That was Siri."

Germany glared at him. The phone pinged and a reply came that both pleased and displeased the German.

'Soz mate I'm at Arthur's house. We've set up an indoor rollerblading party and I'm in charge of beverages.'

Germany wondered who the 'we' was.

* * *

Meanwhile at the service station…

Francis, arch-villain, was now prancing up and down trying on various different 'free' tiaras that were included in such publications as 'Girl', 'Princess' and 'Sparkle' from the magazine rack within the shop.

"What do you zink, Leopold?" He asked his one hostage.

"You look like an idiot and my name is not 'Leopold'," the hostage said.

"Ah but it suits you, mon ami."

"Can I go now?"

"Non, not until I know zat ze horrible policemen will not shoot moi."

The youth looked disappointed. "There's nothing to stop me just walking out," he said.

France turned to look at him. He didn't look much like a feared villain, in his flip-flops, mud-splattered poncho and plastic tiara. "I have fought in ze great French army…" (England would have snorted at this) "…Trained avec ze French Foreign Legion…" (this was true but it was a training weekend and a whole battalion had ended up in a little known English seaside town called Snoring by the Sea, blind drunk and wearing tutus) "And have killed men with just a baguette." Here France looked in vain for a baguette, found a soggy cheese roll and threatened the boy with that instead.

"Francis! Get out here now!" England yelled through the door.

The South Wales police force had at first thought England was the epitome of foolhardy courage, but then realised that actually, the French super villain was armed with nothing more deadly than an out of date cheese and pickle roll. They shoved Arthur to one side and battered their way into the shop, flung France to the floor and handcuffed him, declaring him to be under arrest for armed robbery with a sandwich.

Thankfully, France's tiara was unharmed.

"Ah mon cher, I did it all for you!" France said dramatically as he was bundled out, his hands cuffed behind his back and his ankles manacled.

"I bloody hope not!" England said. "And where's my bloody cup of tea anyway?" He said.

"You're under arrest as well," the policeman said, slapping cuffs on England.

"You've got to be bloody joking! Coronation Street is on in a bit!" England spluttered.

"You're under arrest for accessory to armed robbery. Put him in the van."

Germany, America and Italy were just rounding the corner to see, much to Germany's gleeful satisfaction, England and France both being bundled into a police van.

America just managed to get this filmed on his phone for later uploading to his youtube channel.

* * *

Later in the police cell.

"I'm never ever ever going to speak to you again. Ever."

"Ah mon cher. I know zat zis day will get better. Trust me."

England sat on a hard bunk thinking about how shit his life was and whether his Bentley was still in the car wash. They were both still handcuffed as within half a minute of being released England had attempted to throttle France.

"I zink zat I mean… I think that after today you should go a long long loooooooong way away from me. The furthest you can possibly be. Think Easter Island. There's nothing there but giant heads. You can't possibly hurt anything there," England told France and then turned his face to the wall.

France considered this. "Can I ask you just one zing, mon cher, before my exile?"

England didn't answer.

"Could you adjust my tiara? It has slipped down a little."

England spun round and launched himself on the Frenchman and some kind of head butting competition began and then the cell door opened.

England stopped, having done nothing more than dislodge France's tiara completely and get more mud on his face. He hoped against all hope that it was an ally. That it could be America (although he was now sending his video of England's arrest to all the other Nations), or Scotland or even Belarus his supposedly lawful (or awful) wife.

It was none of these.

"Oh my God…" England stood up and tried to shake off the mud and salute which was difficult when your hands are in handcuffs.

The man in front of him looked him up and down as if he had scraped him from the bottom of his shoe. A man with a military bearing, a toothbrush moustache and steely grey eyes, he looked like a man who had seen it all. He probably had. "Arthur?"

"Oh Mr Private Secretary… please tell Her Majesty that I can explain everything…" England said, trying to stand to attention and failing as France leaned against his left leg.

"I really hope so because Her Majesty is wondering why you're not at Windsor?" The man who was Private Secretary to the Queen, the Royal Family major-domo, and general 'fixer' was glaring at England, as if he severely regretted that England was his Nation.

"Windsor Castle?" England spluttered.

France looked the man up and down with interest and purred, "Who are you, hmm?"

The man ignored France as if he were something found at the bottom of a fishpond. "No, Windsor Safeway," he said and then amended through gritted teeth, "Of course Windsor Castle." He was clearly not used to making jokes and his left eye twitched.

"What for?" England asked.

"The Royal Wedding…"

 **Author's notes:**

 **The man who came to see England is of course the Private Secretary to the Queen and based on a character in The Crown which I've got quite addicted to.**

 **Dog Day Afternoon - obviously not a song title this time round but one of my favourite films - about an armed robbery starring Al Pacino. Classic.**


	61. White Wedding

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Sailormoon1999, Horonigai, Sweetiepie13, RebelKinslayer, gingakita, luzhu, Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17,** **ihateslash604, ,** **nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 61 - White Wedding**

"Your Majesty?" England bowed.

"Ah Arthur what happened to you? You look… have you been ill?" The Queen asked him.

He was stood in an 'audience room' at Windsor Castle feeling very improperly dressed (still covered in mud).

"No ma'am. I've had a rather unaccountably long day."

"You could have at least had a wash. You're leaving bits of mud all over the Axminster."

"I hear you burned down your brother's cottage?" The Duke, who was sat next to Her Majesty, asked.

England gritted his teeth, sat down and then hurriedly stood back up when he realised that the Queen had raised an eyebrow at him. He forgot he wasn't allowed on the best chairs. "Well actually…"

"And Germany's car…?" The Duke continued with a mischievous look on his face that England felt like slapping off.

"That wasn't entirely my fault," England said, wondering where they were getting all this information.

"Anyway get yourself cleaned up please and wear a tie," Her Majesty continued.

"I always wear a tie!" England exclaimed.

The Queen said, "And please don't bring any more dead kings into my house!" She then rang a little bell.

This was obviously England's cue to go. He remembered when the Queen had been just a little girl and he'd bought her an ice cream (although he'd then accidentally tripped her up and it had gone in her hair) or that time when he'd spooked her pony she'd been riding on by demonstrating how bagpipes should be played. It had been four miles before they'd caught up with the thing.

He left, with as much dignity as he could. Bloody upstart bosses, he thought.

"Come on, Francis. And no you're not my plus one," he said to France who was sat outside in the corridor, picking at the seams on a priceless Queen Anne chair.

"Ah mon cher. I do love a wedding," France said sadly.

"Her Majesty requests your presence, Monsieur Bonnefoy," a courtier said emerging from the room as the two Nations were ambling down the corridor.

"Moi?"

"Ha! You're in bloody trouble Francy-pants, my old perverted friend!" England jeered.

The courtier looked England up and down, "Actually Her Majesty wishes to take tea with Mr Bonnefoy and 'catch up'."

"Well screw me sideways with a Jaffa cake and call me Brenda!" England exclaimed and watched as France skipped into the room he'd just departed and the door slammed in his face.

A series of guffaws could be heard from within.

"Damn him!" England exclaimed. He'd forgotten that the Queen actually liked France and his 'bon viveur'. England found this inexplicable.

"I suppose," England said to the courtier, "That you're going to show me to my room?"

"Good God no! You're not staying here, Sir. Not after last time. Her Majesty's orders."

And thus England found himself staying at the only available Bed & Breakfast in Windsor - 'Castle View'. Which did not have a view of the Castle at all.

* * *

Later…

England sat in a very hard single bed in a pair of pyjamas borrowed from one of the Princes (despite his aversion to wearing borrowed nightwear, he couldn't bear to go to bed in his nuddy-pants as France called them). The horrid pink candlewick bedspread was pleasingly covered in dried mud as England had been unable to have a bath.

The bathroom had been as cold as Russia's house and the plumbing like something from the 1640s. The bath taps being so complicated with various worn instructions on them that England had decided that one must have a degree in engineering to work them and had given up, particularly as all he could produce from them was water that variated between so cold that ice had formed at the bottom of the huge porcelain bath or so hot jets of steam had scalded his eyebrows.

He now sat trying to get the remote control to work but had found that after pressing every button on it, there was only one channel - BBC2 - and this showed the upcoming wedding on a running loop as if it were some blockbuster movie. He gave up. He had missed Coronation Street, he could only hope that Russia had recorded it for him.

He couldn't even make himself a cup of tea as he found it impossible to fill the kettle from the tap as the tap was too low to fit the kettle beneath it. He instead munched his way through some out of date custard creams.

He realised he did not have a decent suit for the wedding, there was nowhere to get his own soiled suit to the cleaners and he'd forgotten to ask the particular Prince from whom he'd borrowed the stripy cotton Jim-jams for a appropriate pants and jacket. He considered texting one of his fellow Nations (England did not have any human friends apart from a man named 'Bob' with whom he'd struck up a friendship in a particularly long Post Office queue). But he knew that they would all, without a doubt, laugh at his predicament. He also did not trust them not bring him something completely inappropriate. He wasn't going to be caught out like that again - wearing an Emu costume to an investiture at the Palace had not gone down well. Besides, there wasn't even a trouser press in the room.

The next morning, England emerged from his B&B after a superbly uncomfortable night tossing and turning and worrying about the borrowed pyjamas and how he was going to find a suit. The breakfast had been nothing to write home about either. (However, there was only Prussia and Denmark to write home to, but England didn't know that.) England had had to complain vociferously about the lack of fried bread.

But now he felt rather more the thing. The streets were thronged with people dressed in Union Jacks or alternatively Stars and Stripes flags (the latter upset him, he had no idea why they were waving American flags?). But he had a plan. There was always a charity shop selling clothes and that's where he headed, with the borrowed pyjamas under his arm in a borrowed Tesco carrier bag.

Forty minutes later, England emerged from an Oxfam shop, wearing a tight tartan suit. It was the only one in the shop that was a near enough fit. (He'd been delighted to find a changing room and had tried on several suits - including one that looked like it belonged in the 1960s and was probably one he'd donated himself.). He'd also been delighted it had cost him just ten pounds. He felt remarkably better, particularly as he'd asked the bemused lady in the shop if he could use her facilities to have a wash. She'd evidently thought he was one of the homeless, so he'd tried to explain and then given up. She didn't believe he was actually going to the wedding and knew the groom. She seemed to think he was deluded.

So he sprung out of the shop, feeling rather dapper, wrapped up the pyjamas in some snazzy wrapping paper to give to the happy couple as a wedding present - it was after all the brother of the groom who had lent them so that was alright and set off down towards the Castle. He really hoped that Her Majesty was putting on a good buffet of pork pies and scotch eggs.

At least he didn't have any dead kings with him. Thankfully, his mobile phone's battery had died so he now couldn't receive or send any text messages and was thus totally oblivious to the events unfolding around him.

"I have an invitation!" England told the bemused looking policeman at the gate to the Castle. "I know I don't look like I do, but I do. Go on, ask Her Majesty. She issued it to me personally." He'd been stood there for half an hour arguing his case. "Ring Lascelles, the Queen's Private Secretary. He got me out of jail himself yesterday."

The policeman looked at the man in front of him in the horrid 1950s style tartan suit that smelt 'odd'. He turned to his colleague, who was watching with a disinterested air while eating a digestive biscuit. "What do you think, Bob?"

"Dunno. Has anyone recognised him? He's not famous is he?"

"He looks a bit familiar…"

England got this all the time. Most of his fellow countrymen often thought that their Nation looked 'familiar', similar to Russians finding their Nation terrifying or Americans mistaking their Nation for their best friend.

"You weren't on that Britain's Got Talent?"

"I most certainly was not!" England exclaimed.

"Are you Gary Barlow?" The policeman ventured.

He was about to remonstrate more when a chauffeur-driven limousine (pink) went past and the gates opened. Inside, on the back seat and waving regally was France sat between the two Princesses of York. He looked entirely at home.

"Francis! You bugger!" England yelled and then seeing that the policemen were probably going to arrest him, he hurried off to rethink his options.

* * *

He wandered the streets of Windsor. At least he was amongst his people, he thought, even if they were completely mad on that particular day. Old ladies dressed top to toe in the Union Jack. Men in sleeveless vests with cans of Heineken lager (England cringed, one should not attend a wedding in a sleeveless vest, however tenuous the invite and however far away from it you were, he thought). Scores of excited schoolchildren waving flags. Giggly women in ridiculous fascinators (whatever they were). And most perplexing an alarming number of Americans.

The latter detail flummoxed him. He knew Americans liked the Royal Family (Alfred found it all very amusing and weird like a soap opera) but he'd never seen so many in this part of Britain before.

He paused outside a teashop, wondering if he should go in for sustenance and ask if he could charge up his phone to ring Alfred when he saw the said American sat inside eating a scone and drinking tea. This made England so confused he pulled when he should have pushed the door to get in, causing the people in the shop to stare at him as if he were a lunatic.

He hoped America was alone. He wasn't. But at least he wasn't with Germany and Italy. He was dining with Russia. The two superpowers looked incongruous sat in the teashop sharing an afternoon tea (it wasn't yet afternoon so England heartily disapproved) of dinky sandwiches cut in triangles, scones and cups of tea.

"Yo! Artie! Did you get out of jail then?" Alfred yelled.

"Why in God's name are you here?" England asked.

"Wedding, dude," Alfred replied as if that was obvious.

Someone told them to shush.

"I thought this would be like the Russian tea shops we have in Moskva, but it is not," Russia said sadly. "There is no vodka anywhere."

"You're going to the wedding?" England asked, aghast. "Why?"

"The bride, man!" America replied as England pulled up a chair.

"The brideman?" England misconstrued and stared at him.

America nodded.

England had no idea what he was talking about. He turned to Russia, "Why are you here?" He said more politely.

"Wedding, da? I like weddings."

"Is he invited?" England asked Alfred, nodding his head towards America.

America shrugged, "Dunno. Would you turn him down? He came with me."

"Germany not with you?"

Russia growled at the name as if he were a large bear. He was looking at the scone with much suspicion and motioned to the (possible) owner, a woman who was glaring at them all, "Excuse me, who baked this? It wasn't by him was it?" He asked indicating England.

"I should say not!" The woman replied.

Russia smiled and ate the scone whole, with no butter or jam. England was most consternated, as was the owner.

"Please tell me you didn't bring King Henry with you?" England asked Russia, knowing that for some extraordinary reason, the two had become friends.

Russia considered this, "I do not think so. He dissipated just after we destroyed your brother's caravan."

"Oh no…"

"I know… I will miss him."

"No, I meant oh no with regards the unfortunate destruction of my brother's caravan."

America patted him on the arm. "Never mind, dude. Things can only get better eh?" He straightened his own suit, which to England's annoyance was obviously a good one. "Well we have a wedding to go to. I don't know what you're doing, but I'm going to get me some wedding fun. I'm hoping there's a disco afterwards. Why do you smell funny though, Artie? You smell like something's died."

England ignored him and shoved some left-over triangular sandwiches into his pocket.

Russia copied him.

* * *

"You smell funny like something's died," George Clooney said to Arthur.

Arthur had no idea who George Clooney was. He looked vaguely familiar and just smiled thinking that the man before him was some kind of satirical comic.

They were stood just inside the Chapel and England had to keep moving for various so-called celebrities who were getting past him. He was seated right at the end, near the doorway, in fact if he'd been any closer he would have been outside.

"I'm sure there's been some mistake and I should be up there in the quire with the rest of the Family," England had protested to somebody who looked like they might be in charge as he had attempted to sit in seats reserved for the Royal Family.

In fact, the Queen's Secretary had intervened and ushered England down to the back of the nave with the rest of the 'hoi-polloi'.

"Good heavens! I remember when this was bloody built!" England had remonstrated but was told to sit and be quiet.

He just couldn't be quiet though. Particularly when he saw America slouch past and sit almost at the bloody front. He'd actually walked in with America to the Castle grounds and that's where they'd parted company as America had run off as soon as he saw someone Opera Windy or whoever and had gone to chat to her.

Typical.

Still no sign of any dead kings. He dreaded seeing any other Nations. And they appeared to have lost Russia. He sat down, looked at the order of service, looked up, was annoyed that he couldn't see anything for somebody's hat in front of him. Thought about telling the offending woman to bloody well take it off, thought better of it and then sat back down.

"I love weddings, don't you? I wonder if I will see the Duchess?"

England almost jumped several feet in the air.

It was Russia. Sat beside him and eating a left-over cucumber sandwich. "Do you think they will let me talk to her?"

"Who?" England was dumbfounded. "How did you get there? I didn't see you."

"Secret ninja," Russia said creepily. "I knitted some things for the new royal baby. I like babies." He said and held up a small baby's cardigan that had two head holes.

England gulped, "Oh right. The Duchess of Cambridge… I don't think so…"

"I sent her some of my knitting through the post." Russia continued.

"Oh dear God," England said without thinking. He'd forgotten Russia liked knitting, babies and royal families.

'I sometimes miss my royal family," Russia sadly, a purple haze forming around him which usually meant bad things were going to happen. "It was a shame what happened to them."

England was about to say something but decided not to. He wondered if he could sidle off when he saw that the person in front of him with the ginormous hat was Poland. Sat next to him was Lithuania, the latter desperately trying not to look round at them.

Bugger it, thought England, why were they bloody there? "Poland? Lithuania?" He asked.

"Lithuania?" Russia exclaimed, almost fell over the aisle and shoved aside David Beckham to get to the Lithuanian whom he hugged.

"Hey! Braginski!" Poland said, hitting the Russian with his handbag. "Get off him! He's mine!"

Russia growled.

"You look… interesting," England said to Poland.

The Pole was dressed in a long flowing pink couture dress, pink high heels, and was wearing a bright green very big hat. "Hey! If the Queen can wear pink and green together so can I!" Poland said. "We're here because we're personal friends of the groom's."

Lithuania was trying to get Russia off him, "Yes, it's true!"

"I missed you, Lithuania. You, Estonia and Latvia should all come and live with me. I've had to move in with England and it's not much fun."

"Hey!" England exclaimed. "I showed you Monopoly and Coronation Street."

"He made me live in his closet," Russia confided to Lithuania.

"So you've come out of the closet?" Poland asked Russia.

"Da! I have!" Russia agreed.

Poland smirked and sat down, fanning himself. "Honestly, if David Beckham asks me to go out with him one more time I will honestly tell his wife," he confided to England.

England wondered what he could possibly have done wrong in a previous life to be lumbered with these imbeciles.

Poland suddenly lurched forward then and cut England's next question off, "Serena!" He bawled. "Serenaaaaaaa!" He then shoved everyone out of the way to go and hug someone.

England sat back down and observed the melee. Only by looking at the order of service did he find out who the bride was, but he had never heard of her. He'd never heard of any of the guests either although he thought one of them might have been a James Bond but he wasn't sure.

"It was all so different to when this place was a site of all those burials… Charles I, Henry VIII, Edward IV…" England mused aloud to himself.

"I can't stand him. Stole my crown," came a voice next to him.

England closed his eyes. "Please don't let it be him…" he said to himself.

"I'm buried here. They reburied me."

England turned to King Henry. "No you're not. Don't lie."

"I bloody am! Look at the altar. Go on. They decided to re-bury me next to bloody Edward of York. What an insult."

England shut his eyes. "I remember all that. Give it a rest will you? You were a rubbish king and your grandfather was the one who stole the crown from Richard II."

Henry was having none of it. "They're all heathens. I wish Margaret was here."

England was bloody glad Queen Margaret was not there. She was a hard nut. He also hoped that nobody noticed he was sat with a dead king. He remembered what Lascelles had said and he knew that he would be in deep trouble if a dead king was found here. But surely one dead king could be hidden. Particularly as Russia now sat back down on top of Henry. It will be okay England thought.

But then Francis sashayed down the aisle in a tight purple velvet suit and a ridiculously large top hat with a feather in it. On his arm was one of the York Princesses.

England stood up to shout at him but America got in the way and was glad-handing some slack-jawed imbecilic C-list celebrity who seemed to think France was of Royal blood. If that was not bad enough then Mr Panda suddenly appeared next to him. He was also wearing an outrageously good suit, a top hat (and tails) and was smoking a cigar.

"Hey fathead," Mr Panda said.

"You! I suppose Idris told you where I was…"

"No he had no idea. But I have other sources. I have unfinished business with you," Mr Panda told him. "Now I need to walk this bride down the aisle," he added, flicked ash at him and strode down the aisle as if he belonged there. Which really, he didn't.

England looked around. Surely a panda should not be at a wedding? Never mind that he was in a better suit than him.

"Terrible manners," said someone sat on the other side of Russia. He hoped it was Russia throwing his voice. (Russia was busy sorting through his knitting bag.)

"What?" England asked, hoping just hoping it wasn't another dead king.

"You should answer your dead bosses, England. It's impolite. If I ignore my dead Tsars they throw things at me." Russia said.

"Oh no…" England said when he saw it was indeed yet another dead king. And then the National Anthem started to announce the arrival of the Monarch and England dropped his borrowed pyjamas.

 **Author's Notes:**

 **Queen Margaret was Henry VI's wife and yes she was tough.**

 **When Henry VI refers to Edward of York he means Edward IV who took the throne from him during the Wars of the Roses, but then Henry regained it for less than a year - there was much wrangling.**


	62. Perfect Day

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Taleof2hippies, everythingisdragons, Arrowfeet, Sailormoon1999, Horonigai, Sweetiepie13, RebelKinslayer, gingakita, luzhu, Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17, ihateslash604, , nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 62 - Perfect Day**

King Henry VI and King Charles I had a lot to talk about. Despite England's attempts they were arguing as only ghosts can - King Charles telling King Henry that he was lucky that he'd never had his head chopped off or something (his head was under his arm). England inched away and followed Mr Panda down the aisle.

"You can't walk the bride down the aisle," he hissed, pulling the small bear to one side.

"Don't you oppress me!" Panda hissed back, blowing smoke in his face and dropping ash on England's shoes. "And why do you smell like something's died?"

"Shut up! It's the Queen!" Someone hissed as the National Anthem played.

"I bloody know!." England hissed back and pulled the Panda out of the way.

England found himself hiding behind a huge bunch of flowers with Panda who was growling at him.

"I'll walk the bloody bride down the bloody aisle," England told Panda.

"No! You can't! I'm doing this for all panda-kind. To show that we deserve rights. Human rights!" Panda said.

"You're not bloody human!" England almost shouted.

"Ahem!" Prince Charles coughed next to them to get their attention.

"You need to see a doctor about that cough, mate," Panda said, blowing smoke.

England snatched the cigar from the bear. "That's the Prince of Wales!" He hissed.

"Don't care what he's the prince of. He should still see a doctor."

" _I'm_ walking the bride down the aisle," Prince Charles told them defiantly ignoring Panda's glares.

Panda glared at him and then turned to England as if the heir to the throne of the United Kingdom was not sensible enough to speak with, "What's with him? He doesn't look capable." The Panda said, cocking a thumb at the Prince.

Then there was a flurry of trumpets to announce the arrival of the bride.

England managed to drag Panda back behind some pews just as the bride entered the chapel. But the slippery bear slipped his grasp.

A small bridesmaid who England thought should be at school, stuck her tongue out at him and he stuck his tongue back out at her. Unfortunately, at that moment the Queen happened to look at him and England had to pretend he was examining his own tongue.

The bride looked at him quizzically before taking the arm of Mr Panda who had shoved Prince Charles out of the way. How on earth could the bride have possibly mistaken the four foot tall bear for the Prince of Wales?

England decided then and there that extreme measures should be taken, he thus rugby-tackled the 4 foot tall Panda.

He was surprised to find actually that Panda was quite a tough cookie and put up quite a fight. They rolled behind the pews and England found himself pinned down on top of King George III's grave. Seeing as that particular dead king had visited England not so long ago and England had misplaced him (England hoped the mad king wasn't in the chapel anywhere bellowing about being a tree or something) England thought that the king probably wouldn't mind. "Get off me you bloody… bear…you," England said, trying not to draw attention to himself.

There was enough attention on them. "What yer doin' dude?" Alfred asked him, ambling up, "Scuse me, miss," he said as he passed the confused-looking bride, who was about to walk up the aisle with the Prince of Wales.

England growled at him and he and Panda rolled almost up to the altar where the groom and his best man awaited the bride.

"I say old chap, can I have my pyjamas back?" Prince William whispered to England, looking down at him.

England, still stuck under the panda's not inconsiderable weight (what on earth did that bloody bear eat all day?), nodded back towards the back of the church, "There," he gasped as he tried to throw Panda off him.

Prince William sent a lackey to get the said gift-wrapped pyjamas and handed them to the groom, who unwrapped them and with a look of disgust and wrinkling his nose (which England thought was most inconsiderate seeing as he'd only worn them one night), tossed them behind him.

"Do you need a hand, mon ami?" France asked, extending a hand towards Arthur.

England would have preferred to stick his head in a food blender before he accepted a hand from _him_. "Bugger off," he gasped as Panda bounced on his chest.

"Are the cameras on us?" Panda asked, bizarrely straightening his fur.

"Non," France said. "Zay have been on me, though of course. Do you like my hat?" He winked at the Queen, who was glaring at England.

"You look like a ponce," Panda said to France, for which England almost warmed to the super-villain.

England hadn't spent his spare weekends (when avoiding his parental duties with Sealand) playing darts with the SAS for nothing and just as Mendelssohn's wedding march started up, England heaved Panda off him.

Panda fell back and into the lap of the Duchess of Cambridge who looked startled, as well she might. As if having a nefarious super-villain landing in her lap and ruining her couture dress wasn't enough, Russia popped up behind her (he was sat next to the Duke of Edinburgh, who almost had a cardiac arrest at the shock) and asked her if she'd received his knitted cardigan (which had two head holes) for the new royal baby yet?

Thankfully, the Queen's Private Secretary, who didn't seem to be either intimidated by Russia or perturbed by the general insanity shown by the Nations (for this England admired him and was slightly jealous), approached Russia and told him to go back to his seat. He then plucked up Mr Panda and deposited him in Russia's arms. Russia was so surprised to find himself being told off that he headed off, carrying a protesting panda.

"Well done, old chap!" England remarked.

The Private Secretary pulled England away and down to the side of the church, pinning him against the wall as the bride walked up the aisle (it seemed to England that she'd been walking up the aisle for _hours_ ).

"You think this is funny?" The Private Secretary asked when England smiled at the sight of Panda being carried under Russia's arm to the back of the church.

"Not really. I say, I like your tie!"

"Her Majesty says get yourself and your dead kings to the back of the church before the service starts. Oh and what on earth is that smell on you?"

England turned to look at Henry VI and Charles I who were now arguing about who'd had the worst enemies and civil wars etc. Poland and Lithuania were adamantly not looking at them. The humans around them obviously couldn't see the dead monarchs but could sense the disturbance and shuffled in their seats.

England sniffed himself. The second-hand suit did smell odd. "Right-o," England replied as he mooched to the back of the church. "But can you ask Her Majesty if she'll save me some scotch eggs back at the castle?"

* * *

He sat at the back with Russia on one side holding Panda and some non-entity C-list celeb on the other. The two dead monarchs had thankfully stopped fighting. Panda, England noted, looked a lot less like a super-villain when he was perched on Russia's knee. Although he was complaining about the view.

Admittedly, they could see nothing. England turned to the C-list non-entity sat next to him. "Excuse me, what's going on?" He asked.

The celeb shrugged and edged away from him.

"How rude," England said.

"That's one of the Spice Girls," Henry VI told England. How on earth the dead medieval king knew this was a mystery.

England sighed. What was the world coming to? He craned his head to see if the service had started yet and saw France schmoozing with Princess Beatrice.

He glared at the Frenchman so hard that France must have felt it and looked up at him and gave him a dazzling smile.

England mimed strangling the Frenchman. France shrugged, puzzled. So England mimed slashing his throat. At that moment an ex Premier League footballer caught his eye and looked understandably shocked.

"Not you!" England mouthed.

France frowned and mimed putting a ring on the Princess' hand.

England didn't understand and mouthed "What?"

France elaborately mimed this again along with some pelvic thrusts.

England suddenly blurted out, "PERVERT!" Just as the priest asked if anyone had any cause or just impediment why these persons should not be married.

The bride whispered to the groom rather loudly, "Is that one of your crazy uncles?"

England wished the ground would swallow him up.

"Fathead. Fancy shouting at a man of the cloth." Panda said to England.

"I was aiming that at France, not the Archbishop of Canterbury," England said miserably. All eyes were on him.

"Yeah yeah. Go get me a beer."

"Get me a vodka," Russia added.

"I know you were behind all that cake bomb business," England whispered to Panda.

"I know you do and you're wrong…" Panda whispered back.

"You mean after all this time it was actually…?"

"Yes. It was…"

"The Britain in Bloom Association?"

"No!" Panda snapped. "Idiot!"

"But… Mr Kumajiro!?"

"No! He was just the fall guy. Use your brains if you have any," Panda said.

"So who was it? Who could possibly have that kind of influence to try to start a world war? To make my cake so deadly…?"

"Well that was you, really."

"Shut up, you two, this is getting really good!" Russia hissed at them.

England was still none the wiser. "So you're not actually out for revenge?" England asked the panda.

"Oh yes!" Panda replied. "Mr K is a good mate of mine and I have no Badminton buddy now."

"I still think you were behind it all," England said.

Panda didn't answer but blew smoke at him.

"You're not supposed to smoke in a church," a B-list celebrity told Panda.

"Get lost, loser," Panda told him and blew smoke in _his_ face too.

England shook his head in apology at the people turning and glaring at them. Honestly, bloody bears! His phone beeped just as the bride and groom were saying their vows. It was a text from France saying something obviously perverted (it was in French). England showed it to Russia, who was surreptitiously wiping tears from his eyes.

"You're not crying are you?" England whispered.

"I like weddings," Russia whispered back. He looked at the text and then looked at England startled.

"Can you translate?" England asked. "My French is a little…rusty," England said which was an understatement to say the least. He'd barely scraped past GCSE.

Russia, whose French was very good, translated, his eyes wide, "I am going to boink, what is that, England? Boink… the princess tonight and you can't stop me as you have all the oomph of a broken elastic band."

"Never you mind what it means," England said darkly.

Panda whispered something in Russia's ear. Russia blushed bright red. "France is naughty. But then he does run that radio show for people in love called 'Ask Francis'," Russia said.

"What?" England asked.

But Russia was distracted by Poland telling him to shush as a gospel choir began singing.

"I need to go and sort out France," England whispered to Russia. "Before he ruins the honour of one of my princesses."

Russia, who couldn't make out what he'd said, whispered back, "You're going to be a princess with France?"

England ignored him and dropped to the floor and crawled on his hands and knees to the end of the pew towards the wall and hit a pair of legs encased in trousers. He looked up. It was his brother, Wales.

"You ruined my caravan!" Wales whispered. "What are you doing?" He added. "Are you drunk again?"

England hurriedly stood up, "That was Germany. I think you should beat him up," he lied.

"Germany's not one to go around tipping caravans upside down. Besides I heard that you destroyed two of his cars."

"That's a lie. It was only one car. The other one was a rental."

Wales raised an eyebrow. A bushy one. It was a family trait.

"How come you're here?" England whispered. "And can you help me get France away from Princess Beatrice?"

"I'm here for the wedding." Wales was in full uniform of the Welsh Guards, England realised. Why were they all here with an invitation when the first he'd heard of this wedding was less than 24 hours before? "I'm in the procession." Wales added.

"Yes but you can help me with France…" England said, trying not to sound jealous.

"I think you need to get over France. It's clearly not going to work out with you two."

"I don't bloody mean that!"

"Oh and if you want some more advice," Wales added. "You need to get rid of that smell."

England harrumphed loudly, just as some Sixth Former from the local school (England assumed) began playing the cello.

* * *

England had managed to get himself to the front of the church without the Queen or her minions seeing him. An American pastor had begun a tirade about fire and love (why were there so many Americans England wondered) and pointed at him and shouted, "Love thy neighbour!"

England dropped back down to the floor behind the bridesmaids before the Queen saw him.

He certainly did not love his neighbours. They'd all reported him to Neighbourhood Watch for various misdemeanours namely the screaming, the infrequency of putting his bins out and his overflowing herbaceous borders. Also one of them was now married to George IV.

One of the bridesmaids, the same one who'd wagged her tongue at him, turned round and promptly vomited on his shoes.

He glowered at her and then found the bridesmaid's mother glaring at him. He tried to smile and hissed at the best man, "Pssst…William! Can you get France's attention, please?"

The gormless prince looked at him and then away.

The service was interminable. Really, how long should it take to get someone married? He tried, using a tissue, to wipe the vomit from his shoes and then discarded the said tissue inside the hat of one of the guests. They wouldn't notice.

He tried to catch France's eye but the damned idiot was purposely not looking at him.

Finally, after what seemed like a century, like the spare century England had used to 'master' magic, the bride and groom prepared to leave. So he waved at the bride. She looked at him with a quizzical look. She didn't look like a minor German princess England thought. So he couldn't work out what was happening. (Most of his royalty had indeed usually married obscure German princesses in the past and England was still thinking of the 1700s but that could be blamed on thinking about George IV.)

He managed to sidle up to her before she left with Prince Harry who England always thought was a good egg but gormless. Perhaps he could ask her to put in a good word for him with Germany. "Are you German?" He managed to ask her. "Because my friend Ludwig keeps accusing me of destroying his cars. I mean I did drop a desk on one but…" He got not further before a security guard grabbed him and he was bundled outside...

* * *

Bound in handcuffs and sat in the back of a police car England ruminated about why it had to come to pass that asking someone if they were German got one arrested.

"I could get you out of there as I have connections if you know what I mean," an unwelcome voice said to him. It was Panda. He was peering in. He blew cigar smoke at him. "But I have a wedding reception to go to and you know… weddings… business deals…" he then winked and strolled off. He did not get far. Russia grabbed the panda's hand and told him he was going to visit China. (England hoped this was the country of China and not just merely the Nation in his Embassy.)

England could hear Panda complaining all the way down the lane. "You can't tell me what to do! I'm a big shot! I run a billion dollar underground operation! Get off my paw!"

England sighed. Arrested again. He doubted anyone would bail him out this time.

The two dead monarchs appeared beside him. "That's just what I need," he lamented.

"We can go and ask Liz to let you out," one of them said.

"Liz? You mean Her Majesty?"

"Well, we're Kings so we don't call anyone else, much less one of our descendants, your Majesty," Charles I said imperiously.

"She's not one of your descendants," Henry VI told him.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't have any," Henry VI lied to him.

Charles I looked appalled. He actually took his head off his body and laid it down on the seat next to England.

England tried to mollify him, "Well there was Charles II and erm James and Queen Anne and now there's a Prince Charles!"

Charles I did not look up, or should one say his head, which was on the seat next to England, did not look up. England hoped that the King, when he dissipated as England hoped he would, would remember his bloody head.

"Ah mon cher!" It was France. Were all the bloody Nations just going to turn up and gorm at him, England wondered.

"Bugger off! This is your fault and keep your bloody hands off Princess Beatrice. She's royal!" England shouted at him.

"I was going to get you out. I have told ze police zat you are not a threat to ze bride! But _I_ may be!" He finished this with a salacious wink and sashayed off.

England was about to give up. He was going to miss the FA Cup Final he realised and he wasn't going to save the princess. But then an unexpected (but actually unwanted) saviour appeared.

"Well Arthur, arrested again?" Came a chilling voice combined with the stifled air in the police car suddenly turning very cold.

"Oh God…" England moaned. It was his 'wife'.


	63. Panic on the Dancefloor

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: icycle, Chrysanthemum19, FiannaRain, Taleof2hippies, everythingisdragons, Arrowfeet, Sailormoon1999, Horonigai, Sweetiepie13, RebelKinslayer, gingakita, luzhu, Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17, ihateslash604, , nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 63 - Panic on the Dancefloor**

"Why do I have to do everything around here?" Belarus asked him. "And why do you smell like something's died?"

"Were you even invited to this wedding?" England asked her as they walked into Frogmore House ('crazy name, crazy place' America had yelled) and some uniformed guard saluted Belarus but wrinkled his nose at him.

Belarus looked at him as if he were something she'd found stuck to the bottom of her shoes. "Of course I was!" She said indignantly. She was wearing what she called a 'designer' dress. But it looked like the usual blue/white outfit that she normally wore in England's eyes. The designer aspect was obviously something to do with all the pockets for knives.

Somehow, Belarus had used some kind of black magic or just plain old scariness on the police and magically England had been released 'without charge' and his cuffs taken off. (Belarus had then pocketed these.)

"Where is my brother?" She asked him as they picked up a glass of champagne at the entrance and scanned the ballroom.

"I have no idea, not seen him, nowhere, nada. Nothing to do with me. Oh look isn't that that chappie who won the third season of One Man and His Dog?"

"Where?" Belarus asked, suddenly distracted and then she turned to England, "Don't change the subject. I can smell his scent on you."

"Really? Does he wear Old Spice as well?"

Belarus took the champagne glass from him, handed it to a passing ex footballer and then pinned England against a wall. "I have little patience with you. Tell me where he is."

"China."

"The Nation or the country?" She asked, her eyes narrowing.

"I don't know. Possibly both or maybe neither." He answered.

"Woah there! Put him down, you don't know where he's been!" America yelled, sauntering up to them. "Seriously though, Belarus, you don't know where he's been. I doubt he knows where he's been."

"Ah Alfred, glad you're here," England said, attempting to straighten his collar and tie. He took another glass of champagne from a passing 'waiter' who was actually an actor in the latest action movie, or so Belarus told him.

"That suit's horrible, dude. You always tell me to smarten up." America told him.

"Could he be going to Beijing?" Belarus asked England, ignoring America.

"Probably. Yes. I'm sure he is," England replied. Anything to get rid of her.

"Yay! Conga!" America yelled. "Hold my drink," he said and handed England some virulently coloured cocktail that England suspected was anti-freeze and ran off.

"Well at least he's having a good time," England said.

"Book me a flight to Beijing," Belarus was saying to some poor unfortunate mortal on her phone.

"Make it today. After all you don't want to miss your brother, do you?" England said helpfully. He scanned the ballroom and accidentally took a sip of America's drink. It tasted like cat's piss. Not that England knew what the urine of a feline tasted like.

Belarus glared at him, whether because he'd drank some of America's drink or most likely due to his comment.

England was appalled to see several members of the royal family in a conga line with America.

This would not have happened in Queen Victoria's day. He said this to Belarus.

She ignored this and said, "Next flight to Beijing is tomorrow. Are you sure he said 'China'?"

"As sure as I'm standing right here," England replied but was whisked off his feet by some imbecilic minor royal to 'conga'.

"Nobody congas with me," Belarus said defiantly.

"Nobody would want to, sweetie," Poland said as he conga'd past.

"I hate my life," Lithuania said, following after.

"Let's all do the conga! Let's all do the conga!" America yelled.

"Really… let's not," England gasped as he danced round. This was most unbecoming for a thousand year old Nation.

Thankfully though he was saved by an announcement that the bride and groom were gracing them with their 'presence'.

"Yay! I'll have a present!" America yelled, still conga-ing with some poor late night comedian in front of him and a blogger (whatever that was) behind him.

"Not a bloody present, their presence," England hissed at him, trying to catch him up. Really it was ridiculous. And where the bloody hell was France?

He gave up and almost collapsed next to Belarus. "Where's France?" England he whispered to her.

"Shut up with your obsession with France, it's tiresome," Belarus whispered back. "Hey, I don't like her dress," she added and nodded at the bride and began to head towards a long snaking queue of celebrities and Nations waiting to meet the bride and groom.

England hurried after her, "Bela dear, please don't…" he said lamely. (Calling Belarus 'Bela dear' showed just how tipsy England was getting.)

"What do you mean, queue? Do I look English?" Poland asked a courtier, who nodded.

Poland looked very put out and stomped to the back of the queue with Lithuania hurrying after him carrying his (Poland's) pashmina.

"Phew… you won't want to queue to meet the bride will you, Belarus?" England asked Belarus as she stood behind Poland in the afore-mentioned queue to meet the happy couple.

"I like brides," Belarus growled at him in the manner of someone who really didn't.

England took another sip of America's horrid vivid blue cocktail and then a sip of the champagne in his other hand. He was only slightly amazed (and regretful) he'd not spilled more of the stuff when he was conga-ing. However, he didn't have a head for champagne (or any alcohol really) and was soon feeling squiffy.

"I say, have you sheen seen Franshis?" He asked Poland, prodding him in the back.

"Mind the material on this dress. It's worth more than your whole wardrobe!" Poland said, looking him up and down. "What in the name of Judy Garland are you wearing? You look like a down and out."

"I got thish from Oxfam."

"We can tell," Poland replied, straightening his wig.

"Yes but have you sheen Franshish?" England insisted. His head felt a bit dizzy.

"God, you're drunk aren't you?" Poland asked.

"No," England said. "Just a bit happy."

They were moving up the queue now and England had to think quickly about what kind of congratulations he could offer the bride and groom. "Good luck? I hope you get some nice wedding presents? Do you think you'll be the one who has to put the bins out?" He thought all these through in his head. Belarus was glaring at him.

"What?" He said, far too loudly as he'd now drunk all of America's horrid drink and his own champagne.

"Did you really destroy Germany's car?" She asked him.

"Well it wasn't really all my fault. That was France…"

"France France France! You're obsessed with him!" Poland exclaimed.

"Italy told Hungary who told Miss Ukraine who told Pol that you'd set his car on fire," Lithuania said.

Belarus looked at England with what was almost new found respect.

"Discarded cigarette," England tried to explain.

But before he could say anything else, Belarus did something horrifying, she kissed him.

"Oh bloody hell!" He gasped, in equal measures terrified, confused and rather pleased.

Lithuania turned and glared at England in what could only be described as extreme dislike.

Pol shook his head, "Oh honey get a roooom!" He said. "Anyway here's the bride and oh there's France!"

England thankfully didn't get to hear Poland giving the bride sartorial advice as he hurried off to try to unhand France from a certain minor British royal.

The varmint was standing with his back to him. The horrid purple velvet pantaloons and the stance at which he stood was unmistakable…

"Leave that poor girl alone, you bloody pervert!" England exclaimed, flinging France around. "Oh sorry your Highness," he gasped when he realised it wasn't France. "Why in the name of cricket are you wearing France's trousers?" He had to ask. Who would willingly wear France's pants?

"I think you have an obsession with France, Uncle Arthur," the royal said.

England was about to say bugger off but turned instead to the princess stood beside the said royal. "I'm glad you're okay, your Highness but why is this young man, and a grandson of the Queen, wearing France's pants?"

"It's so funny isn't it? We were all in the Crimson Drawing Room…" she began to say.

"Actually, no don't tell me. I don't want to know… That was the room poor dear Queen Charlotte taught me embroidery," England said. He was feeling most unwell.

"Uncle Arthur!" Shouted one of the more boorish and yobbish young royals. England winced. He didn't particularly mind them calling him that, it's just that they often did it in the manner of someone who thought he was a mad drunken uncle.

"Come and meet my bride!" The bridegroom said, slapping England on the shoulder. "My God, you _do_ smell!" The Prince added as if this fact was just confirmed.

"It's this shoot, I mean suit…" England said lamely and much to everyone's disgust who were still in the queue, he hurried forward to meet the new member of the royal family.

"Hello, congratulations. Good luck and all that," England found he was slurring so covered it up by just chattering on and on, "I hope you like our wonderful country," he continued and then when he remembered she was American, he said, "It's a damned shite, I mean sight, better than bloody America with all your bloody burgersh and mashive roads. Don't worry you'll get used to the rain and the fog, I find it invigorating personally." He finished this little speech by sticking his hands in his pockets. The room appeared to be swaying somewhat.

The bride looked a little confused but proffered her hand. England of course removed his hand from his pocket and grasped hers.

There was a scream and people got agitated.

* * *

"How was I to know there was a dead mouse in my pocket?" England asked lamely. At least that explained the smell. Mostly.

The palace guards had picked him up by his armpits and most unceremoniously had deposited outside on what could be described as some kind of balcony.

"Beats me, dude," America said. He appeared to be filming the whole thing on his iPhone.

"You're a disgrace. Get yourself sobered up," the Queen's Private Secretary said and then added, "And please get your dead kings out of here." He then swept out.

England peered through into the ballroom and saw the second in line to the throne having a what seemed like earnest conversation with King Charles I. The prince did not appear to notice that the King did not have a head.

Henry VI was giving advice to the Prince of Wales who looked as if he was taking it all on board.

He spotted what looked like Germany, sat in a corner writing in a notebook. England shook his head. He must be really drunk, he decided. Who would invite Germany to the bloody wedding?

(Actually, England was right, Germany was indeed sat in a corner writing everything down in a book with the title 'Why I'm better than England' - his latest entry - 'I have never handed a dead mouse to a new bride'. England would be incandescent with rage over this.)

England stepped back and almost fell over the low wall to a ten foot drop below.

America was still filming him. "This'll be great for youtube!" The imbecilic boy said.

"You need to sober up," another voice said.

England recognised it. "Walesh… don't you have shomewhere to be with your fantashtic uniform?" He said bitterly.

"I've already been in the procession," Wales said. "And if you weren't such a drunken dickhead, you'd have been in it."

England almost fell over the balcony in shock. "Drunken dickhead? How dare you? And besides I wouldn't want to be in the bloody procession! I haven't brought my horse!"

"This is great! You could be on the Jeremy Kyle show!" America said.

"Shut up, Alfred. You do nothing but enable him and that awful French pervert boyfriend of his!"

"Don't you tell him to shut up!" England said and put up his fists. "I'll give you what for! I'm your older brother and you don't talk to me like that!"

"I'll talk to you how I like!" Wales replied. "I'm not some weak daffodil-loving ponce like you used to call me!" He said and put up his own fists.

They proceeded to circle each other.

"I will show you who's bloody bosh, er boss…" England said. "I used to box for Cambridge!"

"I used to fight for Owain Glyndŵr," Wales replied.

"Wow, crazy name, crazy dude. Am I right or am I right?" America yelled, still filming. He had never learned in all his years to keep well out of family arguments between England and his brothers.

"Will you shut up you complete buffoon!" Wales said and then added a lot more in Welsh.

"You take that back!" England said and promptly bopped him on the nose with his fist.

Wales put a hand to his nose, saw the blood and then launched forward, hitting his older brother several times around the head, "I'll knock some sense in you! This is for burning down my cottage and knocking over my caravan! And letting France loose in my country!" He said.

"You guys fight like girls," America said with what seemed like boredom.

England fought back as best he could, "I never liked daffodils or leeks anyway!" He said and jumped on his brother.

They rolled around on the polished floor. "You take that back!" Wales said. His uniform was now filthy. It was to be hoped that he wasn't going to be in any more processions.

"Well you take that back about Alfred!" England replied. He was actually coming off quite badly from this. His hair was a mess (or at least it had not improved), his jacket was torn and one of his shoes had come off, revealing Pokeman socks (they were America's) with a hole in one of the heels.

"Won't!" Wales said and batted his brother around the head several times. He had managed to get England on his back and was sat on his chest. "You always bullied me when I was a kid! And you were always killing my chieftains!" He added.

"Well bloody hell! Anybody who has chieftains instead of proper kings deserves to have them knocked off!" England replied. "They were all bloody called Owain or Llewellyn or something ridiculous as well!"

"Actually Uncle Bryn, Dad's right," Alfred said in an attempt at being wise, although he had no idea what they were talking about.

"I'm not your bloody dad!" England yelled.

"Can you keep it down in here? We're trying to party!" A rather rude chat show host with falling viewing figures said.

"Sorry," England muttered from beneath his brother.

"You're the most baseless and rude Englishman I ever met!" Wales said.

"I cannae agree with that," came a familiar voice in a Scottish accent.

"Scotland! My dear Hamish!" England said with some hope.

"Uncle Hamish! This just gets better!" America said.

"Aye! I once met an Englishman called Bob who lived in Harrogate who called me a drunken sod and threw me out of his house!" Scotland said. "He was worse than Arthur!"

"That was Yorkshire, my son!" England said, appalled.

"Aye, bloody odd feller in his flat cap and his little rat on a string," Scotland continued. He looked very drunk and was swaying rather a lot.

"That was his dog, Heathcliff," England said. "I say, could you poshibly help me up, Hamish?"

"Been a good wedding though eh?" Scotland continued, ignoring his brother.

"Bugger off Hamish if you're just going to stand there and talk rubbish," Wales said, pausing in his attacking of the Englishman underneath him.

"Yeah, bugger off," England agreed. "And you can get off me as well," England said to Wales.

"Yeah, gay…" America said.

"Tell your bloody stupid adopted son I'm not gay," Wales said.

"Gay," America replied.

"Alfred, do behave."

"Leave the boy alonesh," Scotland said and winked at America. "He can't help being shubnormal," the Scotsman slurred.

"What?" England asked.

"He called me subnormal."

"Well you are," Wales said.

"Get off my dad!" America said and jumped on Wales' back.

"I love a good family fight," Scotland said and jumped on America.

"Ooooof!" England found himself squashed beneath a writhing mess of three fighting Nations.

Above him America was fighting Wales, who was fighting Scotland, who was fighting them both.

In actual fact all of them just appeared to be ineffectually batting each other around the head. Unfortunately for England, he was kind of hoping they'd knock each other out.

He managed to crawl out from under them and slowly got to his feet. He dusted himself down.

"Arthuuuuuuuur!" Belarus called.

He considered heading back underneath his brothers and Alfred and getting beaten up. It would surely be better than what awaited him out here.

"This is supposed to be date night," she told him with a growl.

"It is?" He squeaked.

Belarus was about to tell him something else but was rightfully distracted by Scotland's bare legs beneath his kilt. "What's going on there?" she nodded at the heap of Nations.

"They're fighting."

"Hmmm," she looked at them with some professional interest. "Tell America that double-arm lock is easy to get out of."

England didn't really want to discuss wrestling moves with his 'wife' and certainly not at a royal wedding reception. It wasn't really the 'done thing'.

"I think I'm going to go home now," he said and began sidling off.

Poland blocked his escape, "I don't think so," the Pole said. "Not until you've explained yourself."

"What?"

"Yes, the bride fainted after you shook her hand and everyone is saying that she has a crush on you," Belarus said with a growl.

"Me?" England squeaked.

"You made her scream," Lithuania pointed out.

"Is that a half nelson move? Nice one, Scotland. I'm rather impressed," Poland said, as equally distracted by the fighting as Belarus and then turned back to England, "Yes, you're her secret lover." He said with a barely disguised smirk.

"I gave her a dead mouse," England said.

"Bloody pervert. Is that, like, what young people call it these days, Liet?" Poland asked, turning to Lithuania and batting him playfully on his chest with a fan.

"No, it _was_ a dead mouse, Pol," Lithuania explained.

"Oh," Poland looked disappointed.

"So you are not trying to seduce the bride?" Belarus asked England, looking him up and down.

England side-stepped the rolling mess of three Nations fighting. (America seemed to getting the best of it, but Scotland's kilt appeared to have slipped and this made everyone very wary.). "No."

"But she loves you?" Belarus asked, her eyes narrowing.

"I highly doubt it," England said.

Belarus stepped over the three Nations and headed back into the ballroom. "I'm going to sort this out."

"Who started this rumour? Please don't say Hungary told you who told Ukraine who told someone else…?" England asked.

"No, it was France," Poland said.

"I'm going to kill him," England said and followed Belarus.

America, who had finally extricated himself from the fight, was telling 'Uncle Hamish' to get some pants on.

Wales stood up and straightened his uniform. "Honestly, this is not good for a serving officer to be seen fighting," he said with all the pomposity of his older brother.

Scotland just burped at them.

"Belarus, dear…" England was saying.

Belarus was storming across the ballroom dance floor heading straight for the happy couple. The bride appeared to have recovered from her shock of meeting England and was now greeting the guests. Her groom looked as if he didn't really know what was happening.

This would increase exponentially as Belarus took hold of the top tier of the nearby wedding cake and flung it at the couple.

Her aim of course was unerring but England flung himself in front with a "Noooooo!" As if it were a bullet.

Poland laughed, "Oh Belarus! You can't even hit a bride with a cake!" He said as if this should be a pre-requisite for any decent Nation.

Belarus spun round, took hold of another piece and threw that at Poland.

"Cake? Someone said cake?" America asked and was hit full in the face with a piece. "Oh my God! What is this?"

"Lemon and elderflower," Lithuania replied, reading from the hand-typed description beneath the truly ginormous ten tier cake and taking a quick taste.

England, who could not see as sponge obscured his eyesight, stepped back straight into the table holding the rest of the cake which subsequently collapsed.

"Food fight!" America yelled, picked up a rather large chunk and was about to fling it at Belarus, who flashed a knife at him, he re-aimed at Scotland instead.

Instead, Wales and his once immaculate uniform got it straight in the chest. He yelled in frustration and leapt at America, who responded by shoving a huge slice in the Welshman's face and, with added cruelty, telling him it had been made by Arthur.

And that's when the panic started.

Cake was being flung around by America, Belarus, Poland and, weirdly, King Henry, whilst the guests were screaming - particularly the royal guests who knew the truth about England's baking.

"General hysteria," England muttered, slipping and sliding on lemon sponge. "If I'd baked this cake, I'd have made it a good old fashioned fruit cake," he said.

Unfortunately, he said this to a prince of the realm who completely panicked and ordered the guards in to arrest England

"Oh bloody hell," England said. He had elderflower and lemon sponge in his hair.

Fire sprinklers went off - probably ordered by some comedian who thought this would slow down one of Arthur's cakes.

England decided that it was time to make his exit. He shoved aside Scotland who bizarrely was doing the 'Birdie Dance' with a headless King Charles I, and headed for the door. It was blocked by royal guards who saw him and made a dash for him.

Cake was his saviour (and not for the first time) as the guards slipped and slid across the floor.

England slid quite elegantly towards the balcony and paused as he stood on the wall and looked down.

Ten feet below him was France in his whole sartorial elegance - in a Chanel purple suit and a matching fedora. He was sat in a bright red Porsche. "Ah mon cher! Do not jump! I am not worth it!" France shouted up.

Sat in the car was Princess Beatrice and she appeared to have had a lobotomy. That could be the only explanation for her gazing at France as if he were some kind of sex god.

England decided that she probably should be committed to a mental asylum.

"I did not mean what I said to ze others about your habits! If you want to read Gardeners World in ze bathroom zat is nothing to do with anyone else!" France yelled. "Don't jump, mon cher, nothng is worth it!"

"What in God's name are you blithering about, you fool? I need to jump before I'm arrested again!"

A frown crossed the Frenchman's face and then a lightbulb appeared to go off. "You need rope, mon cher!"

"Do I look like Edmund Hillary? Where am I going to get rope?" England yelled back. England thought about jumping anyway but landing on a royal Princess would not look good he decided.

He looked around wildly. In the ballroom it looked as if there'd been a sponge massacre. People were running around covered in wet soggy sponge.

But then he had an idea. He just needed a lot of material. Like tying sheets together…

"Excuse me…" he said to the bride, took the tiara off her head and pulled her very very long veil off. "I'm just borrowing this," he said. She stared at him as if he were a psychopath and he ran off.

Who needed a veil this long anyway, he thought. Besides it was already covered in sponge so no harm done. He tied one end to a pillar and flung the rest over the balcony and proceeded to climb down. It was only when he was half way down that he realised that he was still holding the tiara. "Bugger," he said to himself and fell the last six feet, landing on top of France.

He panicked and gave the tiara to France, who panicked and gave it back.

"Shit! They'll think I've stole it!" England said.

France nodded. But then said, "Look at ze car Beatrice has bought me!" As if England's tiara heist was of no consequence.

The registration plate said 'LA MOR'. England shuddered.

Princess Beatrice got out of the car and looked at Arthur, "What are you doing with great great grandmother's tiara?" The Princess asked.

"Gotta go!" England said, jumped in France's car and prepared to speed away.

He'd unfortunately got in the passenger side. Damn these foreign cars!

France, with great glee, got in the driver's side and started the engine. "We will run away together! South America here we come!" he shouted and they sped off down the driveway, England clutching the priceless tiara and thinking perhaps he should stop drinking.

 **Author's Notes:**

 **Sorry for the long chapter, so many things occurred to me as I was writing and I had to have a fight between the brothers and a food fight.**


	64. Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs:** **Crazy004** , **icycle, Chrysanthemum19, FiannaRain, Taleof2hippies, everythingisdragons, Arrowfeet, Sailormoon1999, Horonigai, Sweetiepie13, RebelKinslayer, gingakita, luzhu, Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17, ihateslash604, , nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 64 - Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves**

England laid on another uncomfortable bed in another sub-par hotel. The remote control worked this time, but was sticky with some indescribable substance. He had clenched his teeth and used it anyway to switch on the television so he could watch the highlights of the FA cup final. The match he'd missed because of the indescribable figure in the bed too close to him. Too close because he'd tried to shove the adjacent twin bed as far away from his as possible and failed.

He was still a little drunk and had a raging headache. Part of this could be attributed to the hair-raising mad-dash drive down the M25 and then being stuck on the said motorway for 3 hours in the largest traffic jam ever seen by normal beings.

England had also received around 20 texts and voicemail messages (he refused to answer his phone) from various people including America ("Yo Dude where are ya? Uncle Hamish and Uncle Bryn are in jail!"), Belarus ("You will pay for this.") And more concerningly the Queen's human servants who threatened England with the loss of various limbs if he did not give himself up and surrender the priceless tiara he had stolen. France had received texts from a certain British Princess imploring him to return. England hated him.

Finally, after England had battered France several times around the head with his iPhone (this did not do the contraption any good but it made England feel much better) he accidentally set off some mindless 'app' called Google maps and a lady started telling them where to go. England felt like telling everyone where to go. But then he realised he could actually tell the lady where he wanted to go and she would tell him. He realised that if he said his home which was a place he really wanted to go but he knew that he would be inconvenienced by having to explain how he'd stolen a priceless antique tiara belonging to a former queen, caused a food fight and destroyed a royal bride's veil and her wedding cake. He really needed to think up a plausible explanation. At the moment he couldn't think of one. Where did people go when they didn't want to be found? He settled on Slough and so that was where he and France was. In a Travelodge in Slough. Which was actually just ten minutes down the road from Windsor Castle. So really he thought, all those guests could have just ambled their way there instead of to their posh hotels.

When they had checked in, England had shuddered when the woman had told them there were only 'double rooms' available. He'd begged her and then said to her that his sanity depended on her finding them a twin room. There was no way they had enough money between them for two rooms. France's total amount of money in his pockets was a one Euro note (he said coins ruined the line of his pantaloons) and England fared no better. His credit card was declined as was his bank card, and he had the sum total of forty-one pounds and 51 pence in his wallet. It was a sad state of affairs. They had just enough for one room only with change for 51 pence. The receptionist must have taken pity on England and told them the very last 'discount' room available was on the ground floor behind the kitchen overlooking the bins. It thankfully had a double bed that was two single beds zipped together. England almost kissed the woman and threw his money on the desk and grabbed the key from her. She raised an eyebrow. He didn't care that he'd dripped lemon sponge on her carpet and hurried down the corridor, hoping against hope that France did not follow and would somehow disappear in a broom cupboard with a hapless hotel employee. It was not to be.

England spent a very sweaty but productive hour unzipping the mattresses and shoving the two beds as far apart as he could. There was still not enough distance between them. Nowhere near. He resolved that only having the English Channel between them would suffice in the future.

So here they were. Here they bloody were. England sighed dramatically.

"Mon cher, why don't you have a cup of tea to cheer yourself up?"

"The teabags have bits of string attached, the kettle is disgusting and the milk is UHT," England replied, not even looking at the Frenchman.

"Ah never mind…" France replied. He obviously wasn't even listening, he appeared to be flicking through an issue of Vogue and smoking a foul-smelling cigarette, despite the room being 'no smoking'. England hoped the sprinkler system would go off and France would be kicked out. France had divested of his purple suit and fedora and was wearing a pink bathrobe (where he'd got this from was a mystery, certainly the hotel bathroom did not have any - England had checked) and the priceless Queen Mary tiara.

France held up the magazine and showed England an advertisement for transparent trousers. England cringed.

"I wish I was someone else," France told England suddenly.

"So do I," England muttered, trying to watch the television.

"Zen I could kiss me," France said and returned to his magazine.

England decided he might as well be in hell.

* * *

America jogged up the driveway of 69 Trafalgar Gardens, otherwise known as Arthur Kirkland's abode, ignored the overflowing bins, the over-run herbaceous borders and the fact that he'd merely abandoned his huge hire car in the street. "Yo dudes, I'm home!" He yelled as he entered the back door. He stopped and then went back outside and looked at the back garden. A goat looked back at him. He shrugged and went inside.

"I'm home!" He yelled again and put the kitty carrier down on the floor and released his pet cats. "Go Jeff, go Franklin, go Hammy, go George, go Lafayette, go Nelson… go find Uncle Den and Uncle Pru!" He said. He looked around the kitchen. It didn't look too disastrous. In fact, it looked clean. The kettle didn't have anything growing in it and there was no hobo living under the table. Definitely an improvement on the last time Prussia and Denmark had been left unsupervised in someone's house. As it was, Prussia sometimes liked cleaning and had gone through the kitchen looking for beer. He'd been disappointed to find none and so he and Den had attempted to brew their own using a very bad home brew kit bought on Ebay. Which led America to the sitting room…

"Oh wow!" America said, looking around the room and up at the ceiling. It looked as if there had been an explosion.

"Yo man!" Den appeared. He was wearing a sombrero (Russia's) and wearing a lei necklace. He looked happy and drunk. They made an elaborate fist-bump/handshake greeting and then hugged each other.

"Missed you, man!" America yelled. "What happened in here? Artie dude is going to kill you!"

"Explosion!"

"Wow…"

"Beer."

"An explosion of beer?" America's admiration of his friend went up a notch.

"Ja."

"Wish I'd been here," America said wistfully.

"Ja, it was something else. The home-brew didn't work out. Pru got caught up in the blast though," Den said.

"No! Oh my God!"

"Ja. I thought for a while he was going to be okay… but it wasn't to be… It's what he would have wanted."

America's blue eyes filled with tears. "I mean I knew he was an ex-Nation and one day that would be it and he would just fade away like erm… thingy and thingy…" (America tried to think of names of ex Nations and failed.) "But man, he's too young to die! I think I can still hear his voice…" he said wistfully.

"Ja, he's upstairs singing in the bath," Den said, oblivious to the American's sadness.

America recovered quickly. "So he didn't die then?"

"Nein! He got covered in beer and the blast flung him outside into England's geraniums. He's completely ruined them."

"I've been to a wedding," America told him with a hint of bravado as if that was more exciting than brewing your own beer and blowing it up.

"That's pretty boring," Den said.

America shook his head, "You should have been there!" He said.

"Unless it was a wedding where someone vomited on the bride, started a food fight and rode a horse though the church, then yeah it was boring!" Came a voice.

"Pru!" America exclaimed and proceeded to repeat the elaborate fist-bump/handshake ritual with the Prussian.

"But why did you do the home brew when I wasn't here? You always do fun stuff when I'm not with you!" America whined.

"We did those prank-calls on Switzy last time didn't we?" Pru said. He was not wearing a sombrero. He was wearing America's cowboy hat, along with America's 'Toy Story Woody' fancy dress outfit.

"You said though that next time you did something crazy you'd wait 'til I was with you!" America said.

"What about that time we left that herd of yaks on Russia's front lawn?" Pru said.

"I wasn't there," America said. "You know I'm not allowed to go to Russia's house." He sulked. "Anyway why are you two dressed like that?"

"Magic Roller Disco!"

"Oh wow!" America said as they led him into Arthur's basement. There was a mirror ball and a disco beat pounding out of a cheap music player. They'd scrubbed England's pentagram off the floor and chucked his 'high altar' out of the way. "Where did you put the dead kings?" America asked, knowing full well that there were usually plethora of England's dead kings down here.

"Chucked them out," Prussia said.

Den nodded but looked worried.

"It's not very magic though is it?" America asked.

"Well listen up, buttercup, we had to get rid of all England's cheesy magic crap because it was weirding out Den," Prussia said.

"Ja," Den agreed.

America shook his head. "Anyway, you guys, do you want to see my video of the wedding?"

"Is it a Nation wedding or a human wedding?" Pru asked.

"Human."

Prussia looked disappointed. "It can't be as good as old Fritz's wedding in 1733! Mein Gott! There was so much drink! Mind you there had to be - he couldn't stand the bride!"

Den frowned at this. "Was I invited? I can't remember?"

"Nein," Prussia said. "Sorry…"

"Never mind. He was a nobhead."

"He was not! He was bloody great! Everybody should have Frederick as their second name. Even if they're not men!"

America had no idea what they were talking about. European history was completely confusing to him. "Anyway, this vid is completely brilliant."

"Can't be. We weren't there," Den said.

"Yes but there was a cake fight. Uncle Hamish and Uncle Bryn fought with Artie dude. Belarus was there and that's always another level of crazy and Artie ran off with France."

"Hmm… Okay let's have a look," Prussia said, looking a bit put out.

"We should have been there. They didn't invite us," Den whispered to his friend in German.

"What's that?" America called. He hated it when they used foreign language he didn't understand - which was any but English. It made him feel excluded, less of one of the Awesome Trio. And he loved being in the Trio. He'd got a letter saying he could be and everything.

"Nothing," Den muttered and they trudged back upstairs to watch the 'vid' on America's phone whilst sat on England's beer-soaked sofa.

* * *

"Do you think my derriere would look big in this?" France asked England, holding Vogue up and pointing at some ridiculously overpriced piece of tat.

England made the error of actually looking across and then missing a goal. "Oh buggering hell!"

"Hmmm…" France muttered. "Perhaps not."

"I bloody missed the bloody goal!" England swore. "Idiot Frenchman."

"A Frenchman scored?" France asked, suddenly looking a little more interested.

"French are rubbish at football," England said, grumpily. (He would eat his words later in the year.)

There was banging on the wall next to them. "Keep it down in there! Some people are trying to work!"

England frowned. It wasn't the first time that evening they'd been told to be quiet. First was when they'd been moving the beds around. The second time was when France had had a very noisy bath (England didn't know anyone else who bathed as noisily as France, it was utterly bizarre and he still came out smelling of garlic and roses).

"Oh shut your cake hole!" England yelled back.

France looked shocked as if England had sworn.

"Well…" England muttered.

"You shut up! You sound like a bunch of perverts!" Came the voice.

England then began to suspect who it was… "Peter?" He shouted.

Silence.

"Why do you zink it is your son, mon ami?" France asked, painting his toenails.

"Because he's on the run isn't he? And it's just the sort of thing he would say."

"On ze run? But surely he would go to South America, non? Zat is what we are going to do. Well, we will when I get myself some new clothes. I cannot arrive in Peru like zis."

England glanced across at him, "No, indeed." He said and then shouted, "Peter? Is that you? You scoundrel!"

Silence.

England jumped off the bed. "I'm going to go and knock on their door. I bet it's him. He did a runner with all those Nations' money. Poor America's gold credit card has been cancelled."

"He should not be in so much debt. He also needs to get a better boss like mine," France replied nonchalantly and obviously not caring.

England ignored him but opened the door and strolled down to the next door and knocked.

A large intimidating man in sunglasses and a black suit opened the door. He looked vaguely familiar but as England was rubbish with names and faces, he didn't think anything of it. "I think I may have the wrong door," he said quickly and wandered back down the corridor to the door on the other side of their room and knocked.

A man in pyjamas answered. He looked annoyed. "Excuse me, but would you mind not banging on our wall?" England asked.

"Are you the dickhead who's been moving beds around and shouting in French?" The man asked.

"No," England replied and hurried back to his room. Which was locked.

He knocked three times. "France," he said and knocked again three times. "France." He said again. He repeated this several times and there was no answer.

He was locked out.

* * *

As much as Prussia wanted to hate the wedding vid, he didn't. He and Den were laughing so hard one of them had fallen off the sofa and was clutching their stomach by the end of it.

"Kesesese! This is killing me!" Prussia said from the floor.

The other (Den), was still wiping away tears of both joy (he loved weddings) and hilarity and hugging America. "I love you, man!" He said in his high emotional state. "That's the funniest thing I ever saw!"

"Especially when that woman with red hair and horrible skirt jumps on top of Arthur and Wales!" Prussia agreed.

"That's Uncle Hamish." America said, feeling quite protective over his Uncle, despite the fact that last time he'd seen him, they'd been fighting each other.

"I'm going to ring out for pizza," Den said.

"Nein! Don't! We'll get Romano again telling us to fuck off and throwing a stale pizza with weird toppings at us!" Prussia implored from his prone position on the floor.

"You ordered pizza without me?" America asked. "What else have you two been doing without me? I thought we were the Awesome Trio?" He felt very left out.

"We painted England's bathroom in the colours of the Prussian flag," Prussia told him.

"And your bedroom we painted in the colours of the Danish flag," Den told America.

"But it looks like the Austrian flag," Prussia grumbled.

"Doesn't," Den replied.

"Does. You did it on purpose," Pru shot back.

"Why would I do that?" Den said.

"Dunno, but you did," Pru said.

All this was said in a bizarre mix of German and Danish and then they began fighting.

America sighed, got up and went outside and stood in the back garden. He really did not want to take sides.

"I hope you're not crushing my gardenias," came a voice from over the fence.

"George? King George?" America asked, peering over.

It was George IV, the next door neighbour - actually the ghost of George IV who had eloped and married the next door neighbour.

"I'm called George King now," the King replied. He was still fat, America noted. "Why are you still here? I thought Arthur said you were going back home to America?" King George said and said the word 'America' with a grimace.

America felt a twinge of homesickness. "I was… Hey you were a king once…"

"I was! I was a very great King!"

"That's not what Artie said. He said you were pretty bad."

"What?"

"Not as bad as King Henry though."

"Henry the Eighth?"

"No, Henry the Sixth. He said he caused a war with flowers or something. Don't know. I wasn't really listening."

"Idiot American. You should have stayed under my father's control," George said.

"He said he was a tree though," America said.

"True that."

"So, as you're a king and wise and all that. Do you think I should go home? My country kind of needs me."

King George sighed. "I doubt that."

America thought about that. "Artie says I should though. But I think he needs a carer."

"He has France," King George said.

"Mind you it'll be Independence Day soon and I should be home for that," America said.

"Then there's your answer," King George said, going back inside his house.

"Is that it? Is that all the advice you're going to give me?"

Evidently so, for King George slammed the door shut.

America thought about it. Considering the fact that England would be arriving home at any moment and blame them all for the state of the place and he would be lumped in with this, then the idea of flying home was looking more and more appealing. Apart from having no money. That was a problem.

As if he were psychic, Prussia yelled, "Yo Alfie man! I think we may have solved our ongoing cash flow problem. Me and Den may never have to work again!" (Not that they'd ever truly worked.)

"Cool. It's not selling Artie's old socks on eBay is it?"

"No."

"Or running those battle re-enactments again. Cos that didn't go down well last time with Russkie dude."

"No."

Prussia dragged him into the living room where Denmark was sat watching the news headlines his mouth open.

"So? Someone kicked over a bin in Little Farting by the Sea. Ooh big deal big crime wave," America said.

"No. Look," Prussia insisted.

The royal wedding highlights then came on.

"By marrying a prince? Sorry Den but I doubt you're his type."

Den looked upset at this.

"No, look!" Prussia said.

And America did look.

There was a newsflash and a newsreader was reading out a 'breaking news' item:

"One of the jewel thieves is described as wearing an ill-fitting suit now covered in cake, medium height, scruffy hair and had a strange smell, the other was described as wearing a purple Chanel suit, a fedora and was also of medium height with blond hair. The two had somehow eluded the security at the wedding and escaped with the Queen Mary Bandeau diamond tiara which is described as priceless. The Royal Family have put up a reward for £100,000 for any information relating to the whereabouts of the tiara and the subsequent arrest of the thieves." The newsreader said and then added, looking over the top of his spectacles with a hint of disbelief, "The public are being warned not to approach the perpetrators directly as they can be dangerously stupid."

America looked at Prussia and then at Denmark. "So?"

"England and France!" Pru said. "Your vid shows them buggering off in that Porsche with that crown thingy on France's head!"

"Yeah but…"

"I can just see them driving off like Thelma and Louise into the distance."

"Yeah but…"

"One hundred thousand pounds… we could share it. Imagine all the beer we could buy…" Den said.

"Yeah but… we can't just dob Artie in like that. I mean I know he's has got it. I bet it fell into his pocket or something… I'm sure he's going to take it back…"

"You could fly home for Independence Day Business class…" Pru said. "Ring him, dude and ask where he is. He'll answer you. He hates me. And Den."

"Hey!" Den remonstrated.

America sighed and rang Arthur's number, feeling quite bad at the same time.

"See! No answer! I bet him and Francy-pants are halfway to Peru now!" He said quickly and pressing disconnect (before Francy-pants could scramble to it…)

"They're not that clever," Pru said shrewdly. "We'll have to think of something else…"

* * *

Meanwhile, England was hammering on the door, _his_ hotel door, "France open this bloody door before I hammer your head in!" He hissed, hoping that that big bloke in sunglasses didn't come out and pound him into the door. He still suspected Peter, his wayward son was in there. And he suspected that the big bloke was a CIA man, probably Marcel or Gaston or somebody. France was ignoring him.

In fact, France was sealing their fate by checking in on Facebook, the wily international jewel thief that he was, and posting a picture of himself on his Facebook page wearing the tiara and showing his location as 'Travelodge, Slough'.

It would be a race against time as to who would get there first - the police, the Awesome Trio or somebody else…

 **Author's Note:**

 **Thank you again all those who have reviewed this fanfic, it was never going to be this long… but then of course the wedding had to be included.**


	65. Wanted Dead or Alive

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Ace-Phantom69,** **Crazy004** , **icycle, Chrysanthemum19, FiannaRain, Taleof2hippies, everythingisdragons, Arrowfeet, Sailormoon1999, Horonigai, Sweetiepie13, RebelKinslayer, gingakita, luzhu, Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17, ihateslash604, , nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 65 Wanted Dead or Alive**

"Open this bloody door, Francis, before I do something nasty to your erm… your erm…" England thought hard, whilst staring at the hotel door. Room number 217. "…Your hair!" England finished finally.

The door was slammed open.

England screamed.

France was stood in all his splendour, in pink bathrobe, his hair in curlers, wearing a green face mask and the tiara still on his head.

"You look grotesque!" England blurted out.

France pulled him inside, looked up and down the corridor and then slammed the door shut.

"Shush mon cher. I zink I may have caused us untold grief," France said.

"You're always causing me untold grief," England replied. "Always. You've been doing it for over 900 years. Why would today be any different?"

France shook his head, "I zink we should perhaps escape tonight to darkest Peru. Or perhaps to Hull. Nobody will ever find us there and besides I doubt that we will get out of ze country. I do not have my valaise avec moi. But if we get to Hull zen I believe we will be safe. Nobody would expect someone as stylish as moi to be hiding out in such a place."

"What are you twittering about?" England said. "And did I miss any more goals?"

France was not listening but seemed to have carved out a whole new life for them both, "You could get a job in ze local fish and chip shop or chippy as you so lovingly call zem and I can open a sartorial advice centre to help ze people of Hull."

England turned to look at him, "Yes you do that, Francis. I really look forward to seeing you get your head kicked in." England told him. "Now let me watch the game."

France nodded but began packing his stuff in his Chanel handbag. "Right so we need to go now," the Frenchman said.

"Now? It looks like Chelsea might score again!" England said, settled on the bed, holding his cup of cold tea.

France sighed, "Mon cher. I fear zat we may have to leave this haven. This safe nest that we have luxuriated in…"

"Are you high? Have you been sniffing the toilet cleaner again? What's wrong with you? What haven? You mean this dump?"

"You have no romance. Not one romantic bone in your English body, mon ami."

"No I don't. Now shut up you moron." England said, taking a sip from his now cold disappointing cup of tea. He grimaced.

"We have to leave now," France told him and then tried to pull England off the bed.

"Get off me you pervert! I am not your sex toy!" England protested.

There was a banging on the wall. "Will you two keep it down in there? Some people are trying to sleep!"

And from the room on the other side, "Shurrup Dad! I mean er weird guy from next door!"

England frowned, "Do you think that's Peter? When I knocked on that door a man who looked remarkably like Marcel or Pascal or whatever you call him opened the door and glared at me." He said to France.

"Or Gaston?" France suggested.

"Perhaps."

"Or maybe even Antoine or Louis or Jean-Claude?" France said.

England raised an eyebrow and just looked at him. "Why are we buggering off anyway?" He asked. "We're perfectly okay here. Nobody knows where we are and we can just get in touch with Princess Beatrice tomorrow and she can help us to explain to Her Majesty that the Queen Mary tiara just fell into my hands and we had every intention of returning it. We just forgot."

"Our location may have been compromised, mon cher."

"How? Nobody knows we're bloody here! Who would look for us here? It was either here or Harrogate, but oh no you said you'd never go back there after that incident in the tea shop."

"Ah oui, you English are so, how do you say…prudish." France said, whether with relish or not is not sure. "Look at my Facebook page," he said to England, touching his arm.

"I'd really prefer not to," England said, shaking himself from having been touched by the Frenchman.

"Non, you do not understand….I have made a grave mistake."

"You're not friends with Russia are you? Have you been trolling him again? I told you not to send gifs to him." (England did not really know what a gif was, but assumed it was a bad thing as each time Russia had received one he had proceeded to chase the sender with a piece of bathroom plumbing.)

France shook his head, "Non, I learned from the last time, mon cher," he said and showed England his phone.

* * *

"How come you're Facebook friends with Francis?" Prussia asked Denmark. "That's just creepy. He posts absolute rubbish about wine and clothes and shows pictures of Mont Blanc." He shuddered.

"Yeah the pictures of the Massif Central made my eyes bleed," Denmark answered.

"I unfriended him," America said. He continued when he saw Pru and Den's shocked faces. (Obviously this was akin to declaring war.) "He stole my bedroom and put French rubbish all over it," America explained.

Prussia nodded, "You don't win wars by posting pictures of wine and your butt on Facebook," he said wisely.

Denmark nodded and then said, "Yeah but this is what I wanted to show you!" Denmark said and showed Prussia and America the picture of France sat in bed wearing the tiara.

"Jeez, that pink doesn't suit him does it?" Prussia said.

"Are they in Peru then?" America asked dimly.

"No dude. They're in Slough," Denmark said, pronouncing it 'Sluff'.

"Wow that's pretty bad," America said.

"It's great is what it is," Prussia said. "Come on, men!"

"Why? How?"

"Because we know where they are. And that they have that poncy tiara thingy. We can claim the reward!"

"We can? We do?" America asked.

"Ja!" Denmark agreed and showed America his phone.

"He's wearing a green face mask now apparently," America said, looking at the screen.

"Then we have to hurry because he's obviously getting ready to go out on the town," Prussia said, picking up some car keys and heading out of the door.

"How does he know this?" America asked Denmark.

"I don't know and I'd prefer not to know," Denmark replied quite reasonably.

"Come on, men!" Prussia yelled from outside. "Ooops sorry King George," he added, "We have to go and rescue Kirkland."

"That's my line!" America grumbled, following.

"What? About King George? Why what have you done to him? Pru keeps running through him on purpose." Den said, hurrying after Pru.

"Nah about 'come on men'," America explained.

"Ah…"

"COME ON! This is not how I invaded Russia back in the day!" Prussia yelled.

"Yeah and that ended well…" America muttered.

* * *

"What do you mean you can't find the bloody car keys?" England said to France. They were stood in the Travelodge car park in the rain. It was dark, being almost midnight and France was hunting through his pockets.

"Here hold zis," he said and handed the tiara to England.

England sighed. "Don't you think we should hide this?"

France nodded, "You are a genius, mon ami," he said and went to put it in a nearby bin.

"Not there! This is priceless bloody antique tiara. It was worn by Queen Mary!"

"She never liked me," France grumbled, putting the tiara on the driver's seat. "She thought I was a reprobate. And she banned me from her wedding to King Philip, although he was no great looker to be honest."

"Not Queen Mary I, you bloody fool! I mean the current Queen's grandmother."

"Oh _her._ She didn't like me either. Thought I was foppish twit. I showed her though. When I seduced her son…"

"You bloody seduced King George the Sixth? You bloody seduced the old King? The dear Queen's father?" England's voice was rising higher and higher.

"Non, I seduced the other one. That one who ran off with that American woman!"

The realisation then hit England, "You mean you were the reason King Edward abdicated the throne?"

"It wasn't my fault," France shrugged. "I never meant it to happen. I suppose who can blame him? I mean _I_ would run away with me."

England launched himself at France and they rolled round and round on the wet ground.

Someone opened a window and yelled, "Bloody perverts! Stop yelling and screaming! I'm calling the police!"

This made them both jump to their feet. England batted France around the head, "Get in the bloody car you bloody fool and let's bloody go and I'm bloody driving."

France, who only heard England use four 'bloodies' in a sentence when he was drunk or very very cross, jumped in the car.

"So?"

"Que?"

"Never mind bloody 'que'. Where's the keys?"

"Zis is what I mean, I cannot find zem."

"You halfwit," England replied. "Ring Princess Beatrice and ask her if she has a spare."

"But then she will know where we are," France said.

"To be honest, the whole bloody world and his brother know where we are anyway… but if you manage to persuade her, use your…" here England coughed "…charm, then we might just be able to get away."

"You think that she really loves me?"

"God knows. Poor girl is obviously mentally unwell," England replied. He then saw France's face fall and said, "Yes yes I'm sure she does. She looks mad enough."

France cheered up enormously then.

"So ring her, we grab the keys off her and then we high-tail it," England said. In actual fact, England planned on high-tailing it with the car, selling the damned thing, changing his name and his identity and heading to the Outer Hebrides where he would raise sheep and knit jumpers.

"Bonjour ma cherie!" France cooed down the phone.

England winced.

France ignored him and began talking in his sexiest Frenchiest voice and then hung up.

"Well?"

"What?"

"What did she say?"

"Who?"

England felt like punching him. Again. "Princess Beatrice."

"Oh zat was not her. I just rang my date for tonight."

"I don't bloody believe you! I thought we were on the run! How can you have a date?"

"I am sorry. I understand that you feel a leetle unappreciated," France began to say. England hit him.

* * *

"I asked for large fries. I mean what's wrong with this country?" America asked for the thousandth time.

"Will you shut up about your fries?" Prussia yelled at him.

"Will you both shut up? I'm trying to drive and it's very difficult when you're drunk," Denmark told them both.

This shut them up. "Perhaps I should drive?" America ventured.

They were literally just around the corner from England's house, having only gone 500 yards before America declared he couldn't possibly go anywhere whilst he was hungry, so they'd stopped at the nearest MacDonalds drive-through. America had then got ketchup on his suit.

"You drive then I can drink," Denmark said and they swapped places.

"I should have called shotgun," Prussia lamented from the back seat.

"This is my hire car anyway," America said. "So I should drive."

"Can you drive while eating a burger and fries?" Pru asked.

America gave him one of England's 'hard looks' which seemed to close down the conversation.

"Can someone get rid of this dead king please?" Prussia asked. For some reason King Henry was sat on the back seat with Prussia. (King Charles I was still 'grooving away' at the wedding reception - weirdly, the only one of them who could party all night - without his head.)

"Well that's not very nice. Besides you might need me," King Henry said.

"How's that then, deadie?" Prussia asked.

"I can help you locate Arthur. I can dissipate and appear wherever he is."

"We know where he is, genius," Prussia replied.

"Yes but he might not be there much longer!"

"Okay then deadie - talk!" Prussia said.

* * *

England suddenly stopped fighting France and stood up. "I got the most extraordinary feeling that someone walked over my grave," he said, shivering.

France, pulling his robe around himself nodded. His green face mask had thankfully been rubbed off in the melee and he was now pulling on his poncho. "I've found ze keys, mon ami!" He said triumphantly, pulling said keys out of the pocket of his poncho.

"Right let's go then," England said and thinking to himself that he was going to speed off as soon as France was distracted by a 'pretty girl/pretty man/wine' (delete as appropriate) and he was off to the Outer Hebrides, sell the car, adopt a Scottish accent and raise sheep.

"Not so fast!" Came a voice.

Belarus stood in the exit from the car park.

"Run her over," France whispered to England as the British Nation tried desperately to get the keys into the ignition.

England glared at him.

"You thought that you could just leave me?" Belarus growled as she approached.

"Well kind of…" England began to say then changed his mind when he saw her face and the knife in her hand. "No… absolutely not. I would never just leave a lady…covered in cake," he added when he saw the lemon sponge on her blue dress.

"Where is my brother, England?" she asked.

"Drive," France whispered resolutely not looking at Belarus as if him not looking at her would mean that she would not see him.

"I heard that, France."

"Sacre bleu!"

"And I blame you for leading Arthur astray."

France shook his head. "He has always been a hoodlum, mademoiselle Biélorussie. He has no regard for others or their clothes."

"You can shut up! I was never in trouble with the law until you bloody well started living with me," England retorted.

"Zat is a lie! You were once arrested for hula-hooping in a public space."

"That was bloody Alfred!"

Belarus suddenly shouted, "Enough! My sestra warned me about you, Arthur. She said you were not right in the head and Hungary said that you were a ladies' man."

"Hahahahaha!" France laughed so hard his sunglasses fell off.

England wondered why he was wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night.

"This is not a laughing matter," Belarus said. "And where is the tiara?" she added and she suddenly appeared next to the driver's window apparently without even moving her feet.

England, panicking now, turned the key and the car spluttered and banged and stalled.

The petrol gauge read empty. England hit France.

France, ever the hero, jumped out of the car and ran back into the hotel taking the tiara with him.

"Erm… right then!" England said to Belarus and then followed France.

* * *

After whizzing around the constant traffic jam that was the M25 - and by whizzing, this meant illegally driving on the hard shoulder - America, Prussia and Denmark, the Awesome Trio, skidded into Slough Travelodge car park.

"If he's still here…He might not be…" King Henry said lamely. "I'm thinking he might be in the Outer Hebrides..."

"Useless dead guy," Prussia said. "Making up stuff. Whoever heard of the Outer thingies?"

"I think that's the car France got off that Princess who says she loves him," America said, pointing at the Porsche.

"Why can't I get a princess to love me?" Denmark said sadly.

"I love you, Den," Pru said and then jumped out of the car and swaggered towards the reception where he tried to charm the bored-looking woman behind the reception desk.

"Yo! You there! Bored looking woman person," he began.

Denmark elbowed him out of the way, "You look very charming. I like your er… perfume, what is it?"

"Dettol," the woman replied. (She was the actually the cleaning lady about to go off her shift.)

"Nice…" Denmark said, leaning over the desk.

America then elbowed _him_ out of the way. "I'll deal with this. I'm good with English people."

"I'm Scottish," the cleaner said.

"My Uncle's Scottish. He's also quite mad," America told her. "I think he might be in prison at the moment. He got into a fight with my other uncle who's Welsh."

"We're looking for two men," Prussia broke in and getting to the point.

The cleaner raised an eyebrow. "This isn't that kind of place," she said.

"We're not those kind of people," Denmark said helpfully.

"Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy," America chirped up. "One of them looks like he's about a thousand years old and hates everything apart from tea. The other is French and was probably wearing a poncho and a tiara."

"They are staying here," Denmark said.

"They were probably arguing and being gay together," Prussia added helpfully.

"The Frenchman probably tried to shag someone as soon as he walked in," America said.

This last sentence seemed to make the woman remember something because she wrinkled her nose and pulled her overall around herself. "He told me I reminded him of Brigitte Bardot," she told them.

"Wow," Pru said. "Really?"

"That's it! That's just what I thought!" Den said, snapping his fingers.

"Room 217," the woman said and pointed down the corridor with a shrug.

"Come on, men!" America said and led the way.

But then they all three of the 'Awesome Trio' stopped in their tracks at the sight of a sinister silhouette on the wall opposite room 217.

They shrank back.

The silhouette was of a woman in a dress holding a knife.

"Now what?" Den said, stepping back quickly and pulling the others with him.

* * *

"Now what?" England asked France.

"I have to zink of everyzing!" France said, busily texting.

"She's gone quiet," England said, his ear to the door. They'd heard the horrid scraping of knives against the door and Belarus chanting something in Belorussian. England didn't think his nerves could stand it.

"I am texting my love Beatrice to come and rescue me from zis."

"Do you think she could have a word with the powers that be and tell them that the tiara accidentally fell into your bag?"

"Ah!" France suddenly exclaimed.

England didn't like the sound of that. It usually meant either France couldn't zip up his tight pants or that he'd made England a bad cup of tea.

"What?" England said. He was worried that Belarus on the other side of the door had gone quiet.

"She says zat ze wedding is off!"

"What wedding? There's just been a wedding," England replied. "Now help me with this bed."

France immediately threw himself onto the nearest bed and struck a pose.

"Not like that, you moron! Give me a hand barricading this door. ! I think Belarus wants to parboil my head!"

France leapt off the bed and with the minimal of energy tried to shove the bed against the door.

"God, you're so out of shape, aren't you?" England said.

"I need to conserve my energy," France sulked.

"Anyway, puff…what…puff…wedding?" England said in between puffs and wheezes as he shoved the bed against the door and then leaned against it.

"Mon wedding to ze Princess," France replied.

Before England could reply to this there was a hammering.

"Oh shit!" England said. "Pretend we're not in!" He hissed and hid in the bathroom and stood in the bath behind a mildewed shower curtain.

France stood with him and examined the travel toiletries with some interest. England batted them out of his hand. "This is serious," he whispered.

"Open up! This is the law!" Came a voice.

"That doesn't sound like Belarus, unless she has changed sex," England said.

"Sex…" France murmured, looking at the bath loofah.

England wished he'd not said that word whilst stood in a bathroom with France. He slapped the Frenchman with a damp flannel.

He was about to ask France what he meant about what wedding to what princess, when there was a resounding crash of tinkling glass in their room (England really wished it wasn't classed as 'their' room). "Oh no, it's the rozzers!" England said to France and tried to think of some way they could barricade the bathroom door while he tried to think of some excuse for stealing a priceless tiara belonging to the Monarch.

England turned to France, "I will not go to prison for you!" He said and shoved the Frenchman out of the bathroom.

But it was not the 'rozzers' as France found when he peered into the bedroom. Denmark, America and Prussia were lying in a tangle on the floor beneath the broken window.

Just at that moment, there was the sound of an axe being struck against the door and they could hear Belarus chanting, "Little pigs little pigs let me come in!"

The three Nations on the floor disentangled themselves and all of them looked terrified. France slunk back into the bathroom and quietly closed to the door. "Prepare for death," he whispered to England as he got in the bathtub with him.

Screams could be heard when Belarus' pretty but demented face appeared in a hole in the door, "Here's Bela!" She cried and kicked the rest of the door in…

 **Author's note:**

 **'Rozzers' is a rather old-fashioned British term for the Police.**


	66. Don't Stand So Close to Me

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: Shipwreckedsouls, Ace-Phantom69,** **Crazy004** , **icycle, Chrysanthemum19, FiannaRain, Taleof2hippies, everythingisdragons, Arrowfeet, Sailormoon1999, Horonigai, Sweetiepie13, RebelKinslayer, gingakita, luzhu, Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17, ihateslash604, , nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Chapter 66 - Don't Stand So Close to Me**

"You go and look," England said to France. He was terrified that he would die there in that bathroom. In a bathtub. With France.

"I dare not!"

"But you're supposed to be in that trio thing with Prussia and Spain."

"Bad Touch Trio."

"Yes."

"Espagne is not there and Belarus is your wife though," France pointed out.

"She's not in the trio though."

Whilst all this conversation was going on they could hear terrible screams and entreaties for mercy coming from the other room.

And then someone yelled, "Get down on the floor, this is the police."

"Thankfully, the good old police. We'll wait until the idiots are handcuffed and everyone's distracted and we run." England said. In his head he was thinking he would run, leave France and escape in that awful Porsche, sell the thing and go and live in Ireland. No-one would look for him there and it was further away than Scotland.

He shoved France out of the bathroom. "Go and see what's happening!"

The people who had shouted they were the police were not the police. "Gaston! I missed you so much!" France shouted. "Yoohoo!" He was pulled back by England back into the bathroom.

"Foolish idiot! Don't draw attention to yourself." (This might be too late as France was wearing a pink poncho and had his hair in curlers and was now wearing a pink spotted shower cap.)

* * *

Just ten minutes earlier…

Denmark, in his panic of trying to get out of the way of Belarus' axe had accidentally shoved Prussia's head into the trouser press and it was stuck, whilst America, faced with Belarus had jumped onto the window sill and was trying to hide behind the curtains. Only his feet - clad in big fluffy slippers could be seen.

Denmark was now trying to free Prussia's head, whilst the Prussian was yelling at him that he was a stupid moron. Unfortunately he was yelling in German which seemed to really irk Belarus as she approached them.

"Save yourself!" Prussia shouted at Denmark.

"I'm not leaving you, man!" Denmark stood in front of Prussia's bottom which was stuck up in the air.

Belarus' axe whizzed just below Denmark's chin and somehow managed to chop off his tie without cutting him.

"My tie!" He exclaimed.

"Why are you wearing a tie?" America asked from behind the curtains.

"Thought it might get me a better job," Denmark replied. (He currently didn't have a job. Even the shared one he had for a brief time with Prussia had been terminated - a harsh word they'd both thought.)

America, now realising that his hiding place was up (despite the fact that Belarus had not spotted his giant fluffy slippers), decided he had better be the hero, although he was scared of Belarus (everyone was scared of Belarus - apart from Poland who was scared of nobody). He jumped down from the window sill and tried to creep up behind Belarus who was busy terrorising the Dane.

"Where is Arthur?" She asked, whirling around to confront the American. "And what are you doing here?"she asked him.

"Looking for Arthur." He replied as bravely as he could. Hey, even superpowers shook didn't they?

"How did you know Arthur was here?" She replied.

"Dead king," Denmark told her from behind her. He was still trying to get Prussia out of the press.

"Yeah, Deadie told us," Prussia said from inside the trouser press.

"Anyway, we could ask you the same question, why are you here?" America asked her.

"I'm looking for Arthur, I told you that."

"Yeah she did, man," Denmark said, tugging at Pru's bottom.

The door was flung open and three large men burst in.

"Get down on the floor, this is the police!" (This was the moment that England erroneously thought was when the British police was about to rescue him.)

Denmark, moronically, said, "Wow! I used to love them. Great band."

Prussia said, "I can't get on the floor. In case anyone hasn't noticed, my head is stuck in this thing."

Belarus turned to the interlopers with her axe, "Police?" She snarled. She didn't look convinced.

"Don't you hurt my bodyguards!" Sealand squeaked, stepping back.

Three CIA men, highly-trained ex Navy Seals and hardened veterans who had seen action in Afghanistan and Iraq, against a very angry female Nation. They looked terrified.

"Glad you turned up, men!" America said. "I was about to apprehend her but I can see you're here now so I'll leave you to it." He then, with as much dignity as one wearing giant fluffy slippers (with claws) could muster, pulled Prussia's head out of the trouser press with his superpower strength (with the Prussian's body still attached) and tried to leave.

Belarus squared up to the interlopers, "What have you done with my Arthur?" She asked them.

"Put down the axe, Ma'am," of them said.

"Are you married to Jerk Dad England now?" Sealand asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes, so I'm technically your step-mum," she replied and then with dizzying speed juggled the axe and a very sharp knife.

"She's very good isn't she? I wonder if she's available for children's parties?" Denmark said, hurrying out of the room after America and Prussia.

"Thanks for saving me in there, dude," Pru said to America as they paused outside.

"S'okay, but where's Artie dude?" America said. They obviously had not heard France's shout of jubilation.

Belarus was not called the 'White Witch' or the 'Snow Queen' for nothing, as cold suddenly permeated throughout the building. An icy blast shot through the broken window and England's abandoned cup of tea froze over. These conditions were usually attributed to her big brother, but Belarus was just as efficient if not more so.

She broke into a howl (not unlike a wolf) and launched herself at the CIA agents.

* * *

England, stood in the bathtub with France, no delete that, he was clutching France in the bathtub, shivering uncontrollably partly from the cold and partly from fear.

"Ah it is just like zat time when it was 999AD when we thought it was ze end of ze world, mon cher!" France said and hugged him close. He smelt of coconut shampoo and wine, both of which were quite awful in England's eyes (and nose).

* * *

Belarus had overwhelmed one CIA man and was holding a knife to his throat whilst waving an axe at the others. "What have you done with my Arthur?" She asked again.

They looked at her warily. It had all happened so fast.

"Don't hurt Steve! I've yet to sell him life insurance!" Sealand said.

"Shut up you!" She replied.

"We have done nothing with 'your Arthur', we are looking to apprehend him ourselves," they replied.

"And you're not the police," she said.

"No they're not!" America said from the doorway. "Dudes! What happened to you? Why are you working for Peter? He's a deadbeat. He never does his homework on time."

Belarus waved her axe, "Tell me where Arthur is before I kill this 'Steve' person." She said.

"Why do you want to know?" Sealand asked. He was only there for the tiara and the reward and he was darned if he was going to let this nutty Belarussian get her hands on it.

"He left me covered in cake at a wedding reception. I arrive here, and he was about to leave in that awful car with that awful Frenchman."

"That car is my love," France whispered to England in the bathtub.

"Were you on a date?" America asked her.

She nodded.

"Yeah, I can tell. Honestly, this is how it usually ends up with his dates. They always end up taking people hostage with knives." America said confidently. "You're better off without him!"

"I heard that!" England yelled and then wished he hadn't. France put his hand (which smelled 'funny') over England's mouth. Too late.

"Arthur?" Belarus asked.

"Artie?" America asked.

"England?" Denmark said.

"Jerk Dad?" Sealand said.

"Moron." Prussia muttered.

England was about to emerge with his hands up when the real police burst into the hotel room.

"Everyone on the floor with your hands on your head!"

"Merde!" France hissed with his hand still over England's mouth. England muffled something. "I'm too pretty for prison, mon cher. I cannot allow myself to be arrested." France told him. "Leave it to clever Francais to get us out of here," he added. "I have a cunning plan."

England solved this by wrenching himself free, opening the door and flinging the tiara into the bedroom.

This seemed to cause an absolute cacophony of sound. In fact, if England wasn't mistaken it sounded like a riot in a monkey house.

It was Prussia who managed to grab the tiara first but then he dropped it. Belarus threw her axe at Denmark's head and dived for the jewel but was shoved out of the way by America.

Denmark, whose head was still attached to his body found himself with an axe balancing not a centimetre above him on the wall. He wrenched it from the wall, bringing a ton of plaster down on him and almost bringing down the whole floor above and jumped into the affray.

A policeman jumped on America's back and tried to restrain him.

"I've got it! I've got it!" America shouted as he staggered around the room with a policeman on his back and the tiara in one hand.

A CIA man (perhaps Gaston, perhaps Pascal, or even Steve) jumped on the policeman's back, shouting "I'm sorry Mr Jones Sir! I'm back on duty as your secret service detail!"

"Good man!" America puffed with two men on his back whilst he clutched the tiara.

"I'll take that off your hands," Sealand said and stepped forward to take the tiara off America's hands.

"And I'll take that," a policeman said, taking it from the boy mastermind.

"But I still get the reward?" Sealand cried.

"We bloody found it and tracked them down!" Prussia said and jumped on the policeman.

Denmark nodded. "We did!" He yelled, shaking plaster from his awesome hair and going full Viking mode.

"WAIT!" Belarus shouted.

There was a momentary pause. "It was I who found them first!" She told them.

Denmark turned to look at her. He had a CIA man in one hand and an axe in the other. He wasn't sure what he was going to do. He wasn't quite on a war footing and he didn't understand really what was going on or if the man was a good dude or a bad dude.

"We tracked them down though!" Prussia said and took advantage of the pause in the fight to snatch the jewel back from the policeman.

"You are all under arrest!" said the most senior policeman. He was still on America's back.

"Not again!" America said.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"How did you find Dumb and Dumber then?" Prussia asked Belarus. "Cos we found them first and I say finders keepers. Not that we want to keep France and England," he added quickly.

"I know I know!" America said, holding up a hand as if they were in school. The policeman on his back fell off.

"Black magic," Belarus told them.

"Alright, everyone, stand up against the wall with your hands in the air," a policeman told them.

"No," Den said.

"There's no such thing as magic," Sealand said and took the tiara from Prussia's hand whilst the Prussian stared at him in horror.

"I bet you smelled him, didn't you? He should wear better anti-perspirant and Francy-pants needs to lay off the garlic," America said with confidence. "And there is such a thing as magic cos otherwise there'd be no fairies, silly," he said to Sealand and snatched back the tiara and threw it at Denmark. "Den! Catch!"

Den had a split second decision whether to catch the tiara or drop his axe (which he'd become rather attached to) but he decided to keep hold of his axe and so the tiara sailed over his head.

At that moment whilst everyone was otherwise busy, France and England were crawling along the floor (England found a used cigarette butt and deplored the state of the country's cleaning profession). The tiara landed in front of France's nose. France's nose twitched. It was such a beautiful thing (the tiara, not France's nose) and he tried to resist. They were so near the door. But he couldn't. He just couldn't. He grabbed it and, dragging England along with him ran out of the door, flung it shut behind him and legged it down the corridor.

"I wonder which of us is dumb and which is dumber?" France whispered.

"You're obviously dumber," England whispered back.

"Was it really magic, Belarus?" Prussia asked as they were lined up against the wall and their hands cuffed behind them, the remainder of the police were running down the corridor after England and France.

"Tracker. KGB issue," she told him, facing the wall. Prussia looked disappointed.

"They're the city's problem now," America said. He liked that saying. He'd heard England say it of himself and Denmark and/or Prussia.

Denmark was still not placated. He was stood on a bed swinging his axe around and yelling something about mini-bars.

Sealand was protesting something about the fact that he had diplomatic immunity.

"Yeah wait 'til Barney and Betty Rubble hear about you," Prussia told him. "You're in big trouble."

"Barney and Betty Rubble?" Belarus looked confused.

"Sweden and Finland," Prussia explained as the Belorussian was being cuffed.

"I have better cuffs than these," she told the police officer and promptly extricated herself from them.

"Wow, what a woman," America muttered. He then said to the police, "You can't arrest my dudes because they're CIA."

Sealand meanwhile was using his diminutive stature to escape and weaving between the adults' legs to get out the way England and France had gone.

He knew where they'd gone. He wasn't stupid and he was going to get that tiara, let the others end up in prison. He certainly wasn't going to be visiting them any time soon either.

He dashed out into the car park, ran into some police and then put on his 'lost schoolboy' look. "I don't know where my mum and dad are," he told the policeman before they could possibly ask him if he was a known criminal mastermind. It worked every time and this was no exception.

"Poor kid," the policeman said. Not knowing that the child in front of him had embezzled millions of pounds from people on eBay for selling land that did not exist and was on Interpol's wanted list. "Sit in our police car, while we find out what's happening. It's not safe for you to go into the hotel. We're apprehending some criminals."

"Yes, I saw them. You really need to arrest that Danish man in particular," Sealand said. That would teach him, Sealand thought, 'Uncle Den' was always grassing on him to Finland and Sweden which meant he was often grounded.

He was now comfortably seated in a police car listening to the police radio.

The garish red Porsche 'belonging' to France was gone, Sealand noted, but he didn't tell the police this. He listened to the police radio that was still broadcasting in the car.

"Interesting," he said to himself. His CIA bodyguards had been apprehended he learned but were trying to insist on seeing the US Ambassador. America, who Sealand was secretly jealous of, having stolen his bedroom in England's house, had also been arrested and was telling the police that he had diplomatic immunity. (Sealand's bedroom in England's house had been his international headquarters with a secret room hidden in the wardrobe behind the Harry Potter poster - Sweden and Finland's obsessive cleaning had meant he couldn't have a headquarters at their home.)

Belarus was apparently demonstrating her ability to get out of handcuffs whilst Prussia and Denmark were complaining of police brutality. This made Sealand smile. He switched on 'find my iPhone' on his mobile device and smiled as Jerk Dad England's iPhone location came up. "Easy peasy," he said to himself as he got into the driver's seat and started the car. Nobody expected a schoolboy to steal a police car (he would blame some unsuspecting Nation for this crime) and drove away. He'd recently gained his Legoland driving licence so knew what he was doing.

* * *

"This is just appalling," England said again to France.

"I know zis."

"Why on earth do I listen to you?"

"Because of course I know how to get us out of zees messes, mon cher."

"You're the bloody idiot who usually gets me into these messes and stop calling me mon cher. It makes me feel dirty."

France smiled.

England was driving. He felt bloody uncomfortable. For several reasons. One being that the roof was down and after the rain the seats were wet. The poncho he was wearing with the inscription 'Gay Pride Aberdeen' did not keep him dry. The fact that France was wearing the priceless tiara. And lastly the fact that this awful foreign-made abomination of a vehicle was left hand drive. It just proved that foreigners had no idea how to build a car.

"Where are we going again?" England asked.

"To get help from a member of your Royal Family to return zis tiara," France replied.

England nodded. Finally, they agreed on something. "Ah yes, Princess Bea will help us, I'm sure."

France did not answer.

Twenty minutes later they pulled up, at France's insistence outside a nightclub auspiciously named 'Big Red Hot Mamas'. England was appalled at the lack of apostrophes in the name. "Big Red Hot Mama's what?" He asked and then without waiting for an answer he said, "This isn't Windsor Castle."

"No mon cher, it is not."

"I thought that's where we were going."

France raised an eyebrow. "You did?" He looked surprised.

"Yes to return the tiara."

"We _are_ returning the tiara," France replied.

"Here? You don't mean to say that a member of my Royal Family is in this bloody awful place do you?" England said looking at the building and the flashing lights outside which made it look like a very cheap brothel.

"Why of course!" France said and went around the back, down a dark alleyway.

England followed, reluctantly.

They stopped at a door, painted plain black with a small hatch. France knocked on it, for the hatch to open and a single eye stared at them.

"Francis Bonnefoy to see Big Mama!" France said suggestively.

The eye looked over at England and England glared back. He deeply resented being looked over by a disembodied eye.

"He's okay. He's English," France said and blew a kiss.

The hatch slammed shut abruptly and the door opened…

To be continued...


	67. Disco Inferno

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: FriendlyAmigo, Shipwreckedsouls, ElyArt01, Ace-Phantom69,** **Crazy004** , **icycle, Chrysanthemum19, FiannaRain, Taleof2hippies, everythingisdragons, Arrowfeet, Sailormoon1999, Horonigai, Sweetiepie13, RebelKinslayer, gingakita, luzhu, Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17, ihateslash604, , nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Chapter 67 - Disco Inferno**

"I don't suppose you have Yorkshire Tea?" England asked. The response was a categorical 'no'. "Tetley?" Again a resounding 'no'.

England sighed. "What kind of establishment is this?" He asked desperately.

"Eet eez Big Mama's! Zis is a nightclub, not a tea shop, mon ami," France said, sidling up to him.

England was sat on a bar stool (no proper chairs he was dismayed to see) his hands resting on the rather sticky bar. He'd also asked for a j-cloth to clean the surface but the barman, who had a rather comprehensive collection of piercings and tattoos England noted, asked him if a 'j-cloth' was a cocktail.

England turned to look at France, who was still dressed in a poncho, pink lurex shorts and wellingtons. He did not look as if he were dressed for a nightclub. England, as always, was in his suit which of course could be worn in any situation anywhere.

"So where's this member of royalty who will help us?" England asked suspiciously. He doubted very much that a member of the royal house of Windsor would be in this grotty hole. He had to shout to make himself heard. The music, if it could be called that, was so loud it hurt his ears. "Can they turn this bloody racket down?" He shouted.

France shook his head, "Garage," he explained.

"Garage? What on earth are you talking about? I thought you said this was a nightclub. I don't see any cars."

"Zis is garage music," France said. "We should mosh a bit."

"I'm not moshing. Do I look like someone who 'moshes' whatever in God's name that is? And this music sounds like someone falling down the stairs." England mused.

But France had already took off and was 'dancing' if that was the correct term, but looked as if he were having an electric shock.

Unbeknownst to England, a police car had pulled up behind France's car and a short person in a tatty school uniform had got out. Sealand knew this establishment (there were few dodgy nightclubs in this part of the country he was unaware of as he'd once worked his dues as an insurance salesman around the Windsor area) and approached the back door.

He rapped lightly on the door and told the suspicious-looking eye at the hatch that he was there to test their fire extinguishers and flashed the 'eye' his school library card. Because this looked more official that it needed to be (being Swedish) it often got him into lots of different places. Thus Peter Kirkland, schoolboy extraordinaire, entered the nightclub. "Did two weird looking men come in, one a Frenchman in a poncho and the other a shifty-looking Englishman asking for tea?" Sealand asked the barman. When the barman hesitated, Sealand added, in his deliberate high-pitched schoolboy voice, "Only the Englishman is my Dad and I need him to sign my school trip form for tomorrow, my mum says so."

The barman nodded and pointed to the dance floor where France was 'moshing', jerking around as if he were having an epileptic fit. Jerk Dad England was nowhere to be seen.

"What about the Englishman?" Sealand asked.

"He said something about going for a tinkle. Whatever that means. I have no idea why he told me." The barman said. "Anyway, how old are you? 12? You shouldn't be in here."

Sealand ignored him. He was not interested in debating his age with this human bartender. He knew what England's 'going for a tinkle' meant and so he headed for the gents toilets. France, he noted was still 'moshing'. There was no sign of the tiara. He wondered where those two geniuses had stashed it. Certainly not the Porsche, there'd just been Charles Aznavour CDs in the glove compartment.

He slammed into the gents and tapped on each cubicle (he knew England would die rather than use the urinals - unless very drunk of course and even England hadn't had chance to get drunk in the brief time he'd been there). "Drugs raid!" Sealand called in his deepest voice (which wasn't very deep).

"I don't have anything stronger than aspirin!" England replied.

"Ha!" Sealand said. Gotcha he thought. "Come out with your hands up."

"Okay okay I have some Benylin, but only because I had a bit of a cough. I'm not addicted to it. I was for a while but I weaned myself off it when I started hallucinating the Tellytubbies." England said, coming out of the cubicle with his hands up.

Sealand shook his head. He could do with some back-up, not that he couldn't hold his own against Jerk Dad England. Putting on a French accent and going on about how he had a poster of Joan of Arc in his bedroom at Sweden and Finland's house (he didn't) usually got England into such an apoplexy of rage that he wouldn't be able to continue the argument and would have to go outside to dig up a hedge or something.

"You! Bloody you!" England exclaimed as he emerged from the cubicle. He had toilet paper stuck to his shoe, Sealand noted. "What are you doing here?"

"Hand over the tiara Dad," Sealand said. "I know how to get this all sorted out."

"Really? Shouldn't you be at bloody school?"

"What? On a Saturday night? No."

"And what have you done with those CIA men? I hope you haven't got them doing your maths homework."

Sealand ignored this and watched England wash his hands. "Where's the tiara, Dad?" He asked. "I won't ask again." He added, sounding quite threatening. Or as threatening as a 12 year old could sound. He wished his voice would break. It would be far easier being a criminal mastermind if he had a deeper voice. Getting the Chinese President to invest the Chinese economy into bath plugs had been quite difficult over the telephone with his schoolboy voice.

A man came out of one of the cubicles, was stared at by both Sealand and England, and ran out quickly shaking his head.

"He didn't even wash his hands!" England said, appalled.

"Tiara, Dad. Come on. I can help you get rid of it. Then you won't have to go to prison. Again. With France."

"France has it."

"No, he doesn't. I just saw him on the dancefloor."

"Yes he does."

"Stop arguing, Dad. You're always like this. When I insist I don't want ketchup on my chips you're the same. I'm telling you, I've just seen him."

"Bugger. What's he done with it then?" England asked and ran out of the gents.

* * *

"Well this sucks," Prussia said to nobody in particular. He was sat in the back of a Black Maria police van with Denmark and America.

"Ja, this is not a good ending for the Awesome Trio," Denmark said.

"Although remember that time when we were arrested in Lima for that stage invasion?" America asked.

"You shouldn't have been there. England didn't send a note with you," Prussia said in, quite frankly, a nasty tone.

America ignored him. But his lip quivered. He was fed up with being bullied by Prussia and the rest of them, being called an idiot or a 'kid'. He'd show them!

"Why is this an ending anyway?" Prussia said. "It's never the end!" He declared and began kicking the sides of the van.

"Stop that," a chilling voice said from the deep dark depths of the van.

The van had begun to move.

"Bloody hell, Belarus. I thought they'd put you in the women's van?" Prussia said. Appalled that he'd have to share with this psychopath.

Denmark fought the urge to scream.

America was too busy sulking about the last insult from Prussia to be afraid.

"They did," Belarus hissed. Her white face suddenly appeared next to the Prussian's own. "So what are we going to do?" She asked as the van sped around a corner and they all were flung around.

"Probably go to jail, do not pass go, do not collect 200 kroner," Denmark said with a sigh.

"Nyet!" Belarus shouted.

"Jeez!" Denmark said. "You don't need to shout. I'm sat here not in Copenhagen."

"I have too much to do," Belarus said in a very creepy voice.

"Is there any way you can find out where England is?" Denmark asked. "He's got Prussia's tiara."

"It's not my tiara!" Prussia said.

"I thought…"

"What did you think? Of course it's not mine! Do I look like someone who wears tiaras?"

"But why…?"

"You were there!"

"Where?"

"When we saw the news saying England and France were missing!"

Denmark belched loudly, "I've had six cans since then."

Prussia shook his head.

"Concentrate!" Belarus ordered. "We can get out of this. I have to get out of this! And yes I know where England is. I have put a brother tracer on him."

"Not magic," Denmark reminded Prussia.

America who had not spoken since Prussia had insulted spoke now, "Well you're going to need my help, as I'm the superpower."

"Nah not really," Prussia said dismissively.

"But I'm not going to help you," America added. "I'm going to get myself out and go back to DC."

"DC Comics? Really?" Denmark's eyes widened.

America would have liked to say yes and he was about to answer his friend, who was actually dimmer than himself but didn't because the van stopped - no doubt at some lights and America took his chance. He kicked, with all his superpower strength at the door which gave way as if it had seen one of England's Victoria sponges. He then jumped and rolled - which was really quite unnecessary as the van was at a standstill anyway.

"I'm going back to the States!" He yelled as he jumped up and then took evasive manoeuvres - weaving in and out, zig-zagging even though nobody was looking. "Where none of you will ever find me!" He called over his shoulder and disappeared.

"You mean DC?" Denmark asked.

"Damn!" They all heard from somewhere up the road.

"He's so dumb," Prussia said.

"He sure is," Denmark agreed.

Belarus looked from one to the other and then shoved them both out of the door and followed them.

"Move!" She shouted. And move they did. Into the nearest shop that was open - a 24 hour Tesco grocery store.

* * *

"Banging tunes eh?" Shouted someone to England. England disagreed. He was trying to get through the crowded dancefloor to France, who was jumping up and down to the cacophony of sound. Sealand followed.

"Does he have the tiara? Cos I can't see it." Sealand yelled.

"On Tuesday!" England shouted back, totally mishearing.

"Deaf idiot," Sealand said.

"The bins go out Tuesday!" England yelled.

"I bloody know. I live there for one weekend a month when you're not on your poetry retreat or trying to get into Great British Bake Off."

"It didn't break down. That was Russia!" England replied, mishearing again.

"No Dad! For God's sake…" Sealand gave up and went up to the DJ and shouted something in the man's ear.

"Is there a Frankie Bunnytoy?" The DJ shouted over the din, with Sealand stood next to him and trying to tell him that he'd actually said 'Francis Bonnefoy' and giving up.

England winced at that. What kind of godawful name was that? He managed to get to Francis and tugged his poncho sleeve.

"Dance avec moi," France yelled and ground his torso against him.

"I hardly think so," England replied.

"We're waiting for the guest DJ to come on." France whispered in his ear.

"Where's the tiara?" England yelled back.

"Mon sac."

"Where is your bag?"

France looked around. "I was dancing around it," he replied.

"You've got a round butt?" England yelled, not understanding.

"Mon sac!" France yelled and began scrambling about on the floor.

The said bag had been kicked around the dance floor and England skidded across to try to save it.

"I think I've got it!" He shouted as he picked it up.

"Merci mon cher. It is real leather! Not your rubbish plastic."

"It's got Queen Mary's tiara in it," England said.

"Did you just call me a queen?" The large bouncer asked, coming into the room and looking annoyed.

"Never," England said. The man was huge, but probably not as big as Russia and England had basically been living with Russia - the biggest psychopath out there - for a while now so did not feel the normal fear he would have done. So instead he stared at the man.

The man grabbed England as if to throw him - picked him up by the scruff of his neck and the back of his trousers.

"I say! Mind my trousers! This is a good suit!" England shouted.

Sealand stepped forward, "I can vouch that this man is up to no good," he told the bouncer and took France's handbag from England.

"Mon sac!" France yelled again and jumped into the affray, literally. By jumping onto the bouncer's back.

Sealand attempted to slither out. He'd estimated that instead of receiving the reward for returning the tiara, he could remove the diamonds and sell them on the black market.

But he just as he was about to exit the nightclub, he was stopped by the minor royal that France had come to meet.

"You've got Great Great Grandmother's tiara!" The royal said, peering into France's 'sac'. "I say! You varmint."

"What's he doing here?" England exclaimed, utterly appalled that a member of the royal family, a person in line to the throne, was in this utter cesspit of a nightclub.

"I'm the guest DJ," the royal prince said and proceeded to take the bag from Sealand's hands.

"Give that back!" Sealand yelled and then yelled at the top of his voice, "Stop touching me you pervert!"

The music stopped and everyone turned to look and then piled on the prince.

"He's not a pervert, he's a prince!" England said utterly appalled.

"All of my princes were perverts," France said from atop the bouncer's back. The bouncer was trying to shake France off as if he were some carbuncle or perhaps heavy baggage. Which of course he was.

"Get him!" Someone shouted, pointing at the prince and a dozen or more 'moshers' as France had called them (whatever that meant - England would later have this explained) began throwing beer bottles, chairs and tables at the prince, the bouncer and each other.

Sealand smiled, "Job done," he said and took the bag and began to slink away.

England stopped him, "I hardly think so," he said and then the Chanel bag slid out of Sealand's hand and across the dance floor.

"Oh bugger," England said and gently pushed several nightclub goers out of the way (as well as a prince of the realm) "Excuse me, your Highness, I say I do like your disco trousers," he added and tried to grab the bag.

France leapt off the bouncer's back, "Merci Alain but I can do zis myself," he said and went to England's aid.

"My name's not Alain!" The bouncer said. He had no idea why the Frenchman had a) called him by a French name or b) why he had thanked him for carrying him on his back.

France did not answer but slid on his knees across the dance floor in a manner England thought was unduly flashy. There was really no need for it at all, England thought.

"Mon sac!" France said and hugged his bag to him.

"Damn!" Sealand and England both said at the same time.

Unfortunately, France thought that the bag seemed unduly 'baggy', in fact the contents seemed to jingle, whereas before they did not. He opened it up and peered inside and then shut it again quickly, his face went pale.

"What's wrong?" England said as a body went flying past him, closely followed by a barstool.

"Uncle Artie! Help!" The Prince of the realm said as he was being rough-housed out of the nightclub. England ignored him.

"Did you lose your lipstick, France?" England sneered.

France slowly shook his head and then showed England the contents of his 'sac'.

England fainted.

The tiara, the priceless Queen Mary tiara, was in lots of small shiny pieces.

* * *

Meanwhile in the Tesco...

"They sell Carlsberg!" Denmark said.

"We are not here to buy beer," Belarus told him.

Denmark fainted into Prussia's arms.

"See what you did?" Prussia told her. "A shock like that could kill him."

"Shut up," Belarus said and peered through the shelves of Walkers crisps.

They were hiding in a 24-hour Tesco. But it didn't look like anyone was actually looking for them. Belarus was astounded at the incompetence of the British Police. After all they'd just jumped out of that van and nobody had come looking for them.

However, they were still handcuffed - by flimsy little plastic zip ties. As Belarus had successfully released herself from hers and had tried to show the two 'imbeciles' several times how to do it, she had now taken charge as being the only one with half a brain.

"Belarus?" Prussia attempted, whilst bringing Denmark round by slapping his cheeks with a pack of Danish bacon.

"Shut up."

"Can you get me out of this zip tie?" Prussia asked.

"Can you buy me some sweets?" Denmark asked, standing up and shaking his awesome hair.

"Are you children?" She asked, exasperated.

They both shrugged.

Belarus backed away towards the frozen food section.

"Oh ja, good idea, they might have some ice lollies," Denmark said.

Belarus ignored them both and dug in her pockets and pulled out what looked to be a small skull (it was actually plastic but it produced the correct response as both Nations stepped back quickly). "Cry into this," she said to Denmark.

"What for?" He stammered.

"So I can summon Arthur."

"I think you need to use PG Tips," Prussia told her.

"The tears of a thousand year old Nation dripped into this skull at the height of a full moon…" she intoned.

"I think you're a bit crackers, to be honest," Prussia said.

Belarus growled at him, ignoring Denmark's raiding of the frozen desserts freezer, she thought that by summoning England (as she'd instructed he could summon her after their first 'date' - it worked in reverse although he was oblivious of this fact) then she wouldn't have to put up with these idiots alone, and she could claim the reward for herself.

* * *

It was days like this that England actually wished the gum chewing American was with him. "Do you have any gum? Anyone?" He asked forlornly. He finally found somebody and took the gum from the man's mouth, skipped over the heap of bodies still fighting with France in the middle feeling someone's bottom/derrière and hurried to the bathroom. Sealand followed.

"Dad, we could flog the diamonds easier now. I know a man in Eastbourne…." He said this as if Eastbourne - the capital of holidaying old pensioners - was a hotspot for stolen diamond smuggling,

England was trying desperately to put the tiara back together with the aid of Wrigleys peppermint gum and was aiming to dry the 'glue' under the hand dryer, when the door opened and he got a shock.

"Your Majesty!" He said and dropped the tiara again and almost fainted again. "You're Big Mama?"

* * *

America meanwhile had, after making his way Special Forces style over open country (namely a car park and a field containing surprised cows), jumped in a taxi and finally arrived at 69 Trafalgar Gardens. He jumped over the gate (only losers opened gates), ignored the goat in the back garden and fumbled for his key. He was going to pack his stuff - his Star Wars pyjamas, Darth Vader light sabre and his action men (he wasn't going to leave them for Sealand) but something caught his attention as he opened the door and stepped over the threshold. He turned to do a double take. There was a wicker basket and something was moving inside it.

"Kittens?" He said, hopefully. Perhaps someone somewhere knew they had taken in six homeless felines and had decided to give them more. (Their current feline family of Jefferson, Franklin etc were all ensconced at Windsor Castle - funnily enough in the bride and groom's bridal chamber just for them to find as they were about to consummate their marriage.)

It wasn't kittens. America moved the blanket and stared wide-eyed. "Dude!" He said. Staring back at him with big blue eyes was a baby…


	68. Black Magic Woman

**Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: FriendlyAmigo, AstersandAlyssum, Syntax-N, Elizabeth-Christine of Nowhere, Shipwreckedsouls, HopefulHeart108, Friendly Amigo, ElyArt01, Ace-Phantom69,** **Crazy004** , **icycle, Chrysanthemum19, FiannaRain, Taleof2hippies, everythingisdragons, Arrowfeet, Sailormoon1999, Horonigai, Sweetiepie13, RebelKinslayer, gingakita, luzhu, Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17, ihateslash604, , nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics** , **Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001**

 **Driving Lessons Chapter 68 - Black Magic Woman**

America knew there was only one thing to do, so he did it (whilst holding a baby and trying to feed it at the same time with a bottle and also jig it up and down - who knew motherhood could be so difficult?).

"Hello? Artie? We have a problem." (He'd already decided that it was their joint problem and not just his.)

"Can't talk, Alfred old chap, I have a problem with a tiara." England said.

"I've got a baby."

"You've had a baby?"

"No, I've got a baby."

"Why do you have a baby?"

"Why do you have a tiara?" America asked, forgetting the problem with the Queen Mary tiara and how he, Prussia and Denmark were going to steal it.

"I hope this baby is not anywhere near my house?"

"Gotta go." America hung up as the baby spewed up quite impressively.

* * *

Back in the nightclub...

"Oh damn, it looks as if I'm being summoned, excuse me your Majesty, I really am most sorry but…"

England disappeared and reappeared in Tesco, some 50 miles away in a shower of golden stars. He was still clutching the remains of the tiara stuck together with chewing gum.

Belarus was chanting to herself, "The tears of a thousand year old Nation…" (Denmark sniffed here) "… into the skull of a sacrificed soul…" (she used an empty Starbucks cup with the moniker 'Bob' on the lid) "…by the light of a full moon…" (the flickering overhead strip-light).

Belarus quickly stopped chanting when she saw him. "Arthur!" She exclaimed. "I'm so glad you're here," she said. "I don't want to have to deal with these two on my own… oh, is that the tiara?"

"Yes it is… erm… why am I here?"

"She summoned you," Prussia pointed out.

"She used my tears," Denmark said. He was still crying quietly.

"Right…"

"She told him fairies don't exist, but I've told him they do," Prussia whispered to England.

"Have you heard from Alfred?"

"America? Nah. Hey let me look after that tiara for you. It looks heavy," Prussia said, attempting to take the tiara from England's hands.

"He rang me and said he had a baby," England said, stepping away from Prussia and putting the tiara back into France's handbag.

"Why are you carrying a handbag? I hope you're not going all peculiar on me," Belarus said.

"He's always been bloody peculiar," Prussia said. "Wait! Can men have babies then?"

"Is there really no fairies?" Denmark asked, still in tears.

Everyone ignored him. "Well I'm going to deliver this tiara back to Her Majesty, once I've found some super glue, and then I'm going home to see what on earth America is on about."

"Oh yeah, that kid," Denmark said, nodding, wiping tears from his eyes.

Denmark showed England his phone with a picture of America cradling a child.

"Please tell me he's back in DC?"

"Nein, he's sat on your sofa." Denmark said. "It looks like a Nation. It's not human is it?" Denmark added, pointing out the weird aura that most Nations/Principalities/Regions/Capital Cities/States had around them (or in Russia's case - pulsated around them in a weird glow from time to time) that only other Nations etc could see.

"Where's he got the baby from? Please tell me he hasn't stolen it. I can't cope with this. I already have a stolen tiara to get back to the royal family. If I find he's bloody stolen a royal prince as well…" England's voice was getting more and more frantic and panicky, totally ignoring Denmark's words that the child was actually probably not human.

"He didn't steal the tiara. You did. I think you're going gay." Prussia pointed out.

"It wasn't my fault. It happened to be attached to a veil."

"I married a gay," Belarus said with an anguished howl.

"You married an idiot," Prussia said.

* * *

"Where is Angleterre?" France asked Sealand.

"He's bloody gone with my… I mean the tiara," Sealand replied. "Someone's summoned him. Probably Belarus."

"I thought she could only summon demons?"

"Well he is one isn't he?"

"Well he can be a little grumpy in a morning, non?"

"The Queen's bloody angry with him and I don't blame her. Oh, there's the police sirens… gotta go." Sealand said and slipped out of a fire exit.

"Ah oui! Votre Majesté!" France suddenly exclaimed. He then hopped over the heap of bodies and got himself and the proprietor of the nightclub a cocktail. He was lucky that he was a favoured clientele of that club and that the boss liked him. He proceeded to tell the said proprietor all the latest 'gossip'. But he was stopped by some rather large bodyguards who told him that he was no longer welcome in the establishment as it was not the first time he'd brought it into disrepute.

"But pourquoi?" He asked with a wail.

They listed the reasons and they were not nice: the nun fancy dress party, the Canadian Gay Rodeo Riders Annual Party, the time Denmark visited ensured most of the staff left in a huff and the place got wrecked and now this. They then picked him up and threw him out of the door.

"Mon poncho!" He cried when he saw his most salubrious piece of clothing had ripped. "This cost me five pounds at ze aéroport," France whined as he stood outside in the pouring rain without his handbag. It was 1 am and the paramedics had just taken someone outside on a stretcher with a Chanel lipstick stuck in their ear, a black eye and possible shock. France noticed that it was the (probably) gay English prince and hurriedly turned away so that he wouldn't be spotted by said prince and then headed for his car.

He wondered vaguely where Angleterre was and then realised that the rather pleasant vibrating feeling coming from his pantalons was his phone informing him he had an incoming call.

"Ah Angleterre!" He said, utterly delighted.

"You randy old pervert!" England shouted at him.

"Moi? Of course."

"Have you bloody fathered yet another bloody kid?"

"Eet eez of course possible."

"And left it at my house for a bloody laugh?" England added.

"Oh non." France said, rummaging in his pockets for his car keys. He found them, got in the car, realised that he had never driven in the UK without England or some other unfortunate and hesitated for all of two minutes while England shouted at him down the phone.

"Where are you mon cher?" France finally asked, ignoring the diatribe about babies and America which for France was interchangeable.

"Tesco."

"Oh bien, pick me up a nice Rioja, s'il vous plait."

"No I bloody will not! Get your arse back to my house and see what's going on. Actually no don't, come here to Tesco in…" here England conferred with Den, Prussia and Belarus. "….Reading."

"Reading?" France frowned and started the engine and backed into a police car, then drove over the kerb and then drove off down the road, zig zagging a little. He had no idea where Reading was. But he had freedom. Freedom of the open road. Something he'd never had before. He came to a roundabout and sat there for a while thinking. Did he give way to traffic from the left or the right? There didn't seem to be any point in thinking too much as there was no traffic and so he drove on anyway. England was still prattling on about some baby or some such that had been discovered in a wicker basket at his house. France felt sorry for the child. England's house really need redecorating. A whole new look and France vowed he would undertake this when he got back.

* * *

"What a cute baby!" The Tesco checkout woman said to Den as he held out the picture of the child on his phone to her.

"It's not human," Prussia said.

The woman looked at the four people in front of her. The woman in the blue dress looked very scary and was holding a bottle of vodka as if her life depended on it and saying it was for her 'big brother'. The one with the red eyes, the one who'd said that the child wasn't human was throwing a miscellany of goods such as nappies, tins of beans and a potty into a trolley. The one with the wild hair, the one holding the phone was leering at her and telling her he made 'good father material'. The other one, with messy hair, an even messier suit and carrying a lady's handbag was twitching as if he'd drunk too much caffeine and talking very aggressively into a phone to someone called 'Francis' who sounded like a pervert. Instead the woman put the stuff through the checkout and waited patiently for one of them to pay. At least it livened up a very dull night shift, even if she couldn't remember actually seeing the one in the suit enter the shop at all.

"Money?" The one with the sticky-up hair said to the red-eyed man.

"Me? I'm not allowed money," the man with red eyes said.

The woman in the dress produced a wad of roubles.

"We don't accept foreign currency," the woman cashier said. Her hand hovered over the red alarm button that went straight through to the local police station.

"Arthur?"

The man with messy hair turned from telling someone called Francis that he would 'take him to the vets and get him done'. "What?" He asked.

"Twenty-four pounds and five pence," the man with the red eyes said, looking at the cash register.

The Englishman rummaged in his pockets, pulling out a raffle ticket from the last year's Rotary Club Dinner (he'd unfortunately missed the announcement of the winner as he'd found himself locked inside a toilet cubicle for most of the evening after the lock broke - he was sure he'd won the first prize and suspected it was a fit-up). He paused, the thought of losing a £20 garden centre voucher still rankled. He also had a sheet of paper listing instructions on how to use his mobile phone - written by France - so it was basically unintelligible. There was also a credit card. He grasped this with glee. It said 'Alfred F Jones' on it and was a Bank of America gold card.

"Fill up the trolley. It's all on me or my name's not Alfred F Jones," he said.

"But you're not…" The Dane was about to say but was shushed quickly by the man in the messy suit with the messy eyebrows.

The cashier waited patiently, her hand hovering over the alarm button.

The man with the red eyes swaggered down the aisles with a strange and quite arrogant strutting walk filling up the trolley with German beer and party poppers (for some reason). When the blond one with stuck up hair and carrying an axe pointed out that they now had a child to look after they would have to be more sensible. The woman cashier smiled.

"Ah isn't it lovely? I think it's very good that you're all so accepting of your situation. It's nice to see more diverse couples using our store. We had a couple of gay dads coming in yesterday." The cashier told them.

"I ain't gay, I'm a Viking. I'm Denmark… I mean Danish. Dane. Great Dane." Denmark told her. He did look like a big lolloping dog, the cashier thought.

"And I ain't gay, I'm Prussian. That's like German but more so," Prussia told the woman.

The woman in the blue dress just raised an eyebrow.

"Cute child though," the woman cashier said, referring again to the picture on Denmark's phone which now showed America feeding the baby with a bottle and singing 'Alexander Hamilton'.

"It is not human," Belarus told her. Again.

"It could be a capital city?" Den whispered to Belarus.

Belarus shrugged. But she was looking at England with an intense horrid look on her face.

The woman shakily put through the additional items and waited for the mad Englishman to pay with the credit card.

England prayed that he could guess the pin-code. After all, America was such a bloody pinhead… "1776…" he punched into the machine and waited. Bingo. So bloody predictable. The oaf deserved to be ripped off. He had no idea why he had America's credit card in his pocket. But he was seriously thinking, after he and the rest of these idiots had got home, of poring over the new Screwfix catalogue and treating himself to a new wheelbarrow.

* * *

France sang 'Une vie d'amour' to himself. He thought he had a good voice (some people would completely disagree, England being one of those people) and had once 'cut a record' with the said Charles Aznavour - only one copy of this survived and was the prize possession of Azerbaijan ('Az') who considered France a god amongst nations (the other ex Soviet Nations considered Az to be mentally insufficient).

Whilst he was singing, he was ignoring his phone's sat nav. As the phone's sat nav hated him with a passion (it was sentient thanks to some inadvertent magic by England) it was not taking him back to London it was taking him to the north of England (no euphemism intended) which, if France had been sentient himself, he would have been horrified. And so France headed into the mists of the North singing his little French heart out.

* * *

"Does anyone no how to sooth a small child of undeterminated gender?" America texted to everyone on his contacts list in an outburst of illiteracy.

Only Russia answered, from an airliner above Asia somewhere, with an irate panda sat next to him. Panda had insisted on a double whisky as soon as he had got on the plane and had told the air hostesses that he had been kidnapped. They had thought he was a child in fancy dress. Russia was of course drunk and texted America that he should 'bath the детка with lots of bubbles and take a big drink of vodka for yourself'. America had no idea what he was talking about. But Panda then face-timed and told him he and England were 'dead men walking for letting Russia take him back to Beijing'. America cheerfully waved at Panda and hung up.

"Weirdo," he said to the baby. "Not you, dude. I mean the other dude." He then began to walk up and down, occasionally patting the child's back while he listed all his presidents in order. "This always works for me when I can't sleep," he told the bawling child. By the time he'd got to Chester Arthur, they were both asleep on the chintz sofa.

* * *

Den and Pru had always had a talent for appropriating motor vehicles, whether they be ice cream vans, canine control vans (that hadn't ended well - two rabies and tetanus shots later was testament to this) and once a minibus carrying old people to a seaside outing. They had abandoned the last one on a slipway off the E20 near Copenhagen.

"We'll sort this out," Den said, strutting out of the Tesco. "Come on Pru, we're always good at finding cars."

England and Belarus were left with the shopping bags. "I hate those two," England grumbled.

"Is that child yours?" Belarus asked England.

England, for a moment flummoxed, was looking at Den and Pru and misunderstood, thinking she was referring to one of the two Nations. "They're both idiots aren't they? I think we could pretend we don't know them."

"The child at your house, left on your doorstep. Are you the father?" She asked, her eyes narrowing.

Before England could answer. Den and Pru had indeed struck gold. Or at least silver. Most probably bronze actually. A pizza delivery van left 'parked' (and parked being the operative word here) on the kerb, the lights still on, the engine running, the driver (a lazy Italian) nowhere in sight.

"Come on, dude!"

"Oh I don't think this is quite legal…" England protested.

"Listen wet pants, we either get in this or we wait here all night for the police, end up in a cell with Princess Crazy here and eventually get back to your house and find that America and that demon kid has pebble-dashed your dump of your place with formula-milk induced vomit."

England didn't hesitate again and jumped in the back with Belarus. She glared at him. As far as she was concerned, he had not denied he was the father of the infant and thus she had been cheated on. This was not to be sanctioned. She sharpened 'Natasha' her favourite knife and glared at him.

England sat next to her clutching France's handbag containing the tiara to his chest. He was still thinking about superglue, princesses and demon babies.

In the front of the van, the horrid refrains of 'Is this the way to Amarillo?' rang out from the two imbeciles driving. England prayed to the gods who might look over Nations that a) the child was not a product of a Nation and b) that he might be able to explain all this to his Government and Her Majesty.


End file.
